He had been sitting with his back to the barn, but he turned now so as to face it. Something had startled him—a rustling in the straw behind him. “What is that?” he said again, his hand on the table, his face lowering and watchful.
The girl had risen also; and, as the last word passed his lips, sprang by him with a low cry, and aimed a frantic blow with her stool at something he could not see.
“What is it?” he asked, recoiling.
“A rat!” she answered, breathless. And she aimed another blow at it.
“Where?” he asked, fretfully. “Where is it?” He snatched his stool, too, and at that moment a rat darted out of the straw, ran nimbly between his legs, and plunged into a hole by the door. He flung the wooden stool after it; but, of course, in vain. “It was a rat!” he said, as if before he had doubted it.
“Thank God!” she muttered. She was shaking all over.
He stared at her in stupid wonder. What did she mean? What had come to her? “Have you had a sunstroke, my girl?” he said, suspiciously.