"I—I—I—"
"Out with it; tell just what you did!"
"I left it open," I said abruptly.
"Well, you let the cattle in and they have destroyed all my early potatoes,—a terrible piece of business!"
"I'm very sorry, I'd—"
"Talking won't help matters now; but remember, boy, remember that sorrow doesn't make potatoes,—sorrow doesn't make potatoes."
I felt very bad about the matter, for I was really sorry that the old gentleman had lost his potatoes, and then I expected to be severely reproved at home. But I soon found that they knew nothing of the matter, and after several days had passed, I began to rest quite easy.
Alas for human hopes! one rainy afternoon I saw the squire riding down the lane. I ran off to the barn, ashamed to face him, and afraid to meet my father. They sat on the porch and talked for a long time.
At last my curiosity overcame my fear, and I stole back to the house, and went into mother's room to see if I could hear what they were talking about.
"Why, the boy could be spared well enough, but he doesn't know anything about the business," said my father.