“But,” says I, “Jobe, when will times pick up?”
And the poor man, lookin at me sadder than he has since he become my dear husband, says, says he:
“Betsy, the Lord only knows—I dont.”
And I think Jobe is right.
Well, we—that is Jobe and me, the two old parties—have decided that the interest will have to be paid whether the $2,100 is or not. So Jobe has been a rakin and a scrapin to raise what he could, and I have been a rakin and a scrapin to raise what I could.
We sold Betty the other day, the only drivin animal we had; sold her for only $42.
As the stranger went a leadin her away Jobe and me both sot down and cried. We both loved Betty. We had raised her from a colt. She was a purty colt, and so lovin like, Jobe he named her for me. We had intended to always keep her, and since our little Jane was taken from us we jist loved Betty as if she was a child. And, poor Betty, I know she loved us. When the stranger started to lead her away she jist looked back at Jobe and me, so pleadin like, as much as to say: “Dont let him take me away from you!”
“Jobe and me both sot down and cried.”
When I seen that look my heart come up in my throat, and I jist couldent hold in any longer. I busted out a cryin, and so did poor Jobe. We both sot there and cried and looked at our poor Betty as fur as we could see her, and she kept a lookin back at us, nickerin—tryin to speak the best she could.