"Well, now, Phillips Brooks, we'll talk about the red cow. You say you've drove her a month, do ye? And the trade between us was that if you could drive her a month without her getting the rope over her foot and without bein' afraid, you was to have her. That's straight, ain't it?" The Bishop's face burned with excitement, his gingham shift rose and fell as if he were breathing hard, but he only nodded assent and said nothing. "Now," continued Uncle Abner, "have you made out to keep the rope from under her feet?"
"She 'ain't got t-t-tangled up one s-single time," said Phil, stuttering in his excitement, but looking up with some courage from his bare toes, with which he was assiduously ploughing the earth.
"So far, so good. Now 'bout bein' afraid. As you seem so certain of gettin' the cow, I suppose you hain't been a mite scared, hev you? Honor bright, now!"
"I—I—not but just a little mite. I—"
"Hold up a minute. Of course you didn't say you was afraid, and didn't show you was afraid, and nobody knew you was afraid, but that ain't the way we fixed it up. You was to call the cow yourn if you could drive her to the pasture for a month without bein' afraid. Own up square now, hev you ben afraid?"
A long pause, then a faint "Yes."
"Where's your manners?"
"I mean yes sir."
"How often? If it hain't ben too many times mebbe I'll let ye off, though you're a reg'lar girl-boy, and'll be runnin' away from the cat bimeby. Has it ben—twice?"
"Yes," and the Little Bishop's voice was very faint now, and had a decided tear in it.