I didn’t have a speck of fun. I’d go swimming, but what’s swimming all to yourself? or tramping, but what’s tramping alone? or setting snares, or anything?
I knew father missed Mr. Ridlet on wet days, when they had used to sit in the barn talking over crops and stock, but he never let on.
Mother would look out of the window as if expecting some one; then she’d turn away and sigh. But she never spoke Bub’s mother’s name—not once.
I saw Bub running toward our house one day, and thought he was coming in. But no. He ran past without looking up.
It didn’t seem much use to do anything—that is, if you wanted to get any fun out of it.
I never knew exactly what Mr. Ridlet accused father of stealing, and it seems mother didn’t know, either, until one day, six months after the quarrel, when father said:
“I’d like to know if Ridlet’s found his wife’s silver dollars.”
“Was it those he lost?” asked mother, speaking quickly.
“Yes.”
“Mrs. Ridlet’s been three years saving them. She said she meant to have a dozen as nice silver forks as could be made. She thought it would take about thirty-six dollars.”