Father James
THE broad shoulders were bent a little more that morning than toil had bent them, and the sun-browned, many-lined face wore an apprehensive look which troubled the kindly eyes regarding it.
"Ef I hedn't ben so shore of her, mother, in the fust place," said the farmer, "I wouldn't ever have let her gone,"—biting at the grass straw in his hand.
"She'd hev gone just the same," said his wife. "Wen a girl sets her mind on schoolin', she's boun' ter hev it, ef the angel with the flamin' sword stan's in the way."
"Wal, she's got it."
"Yes; and ef it's the right sort, you no need to trouble."
"But I can't feel jes shore of her now."
"I feel jes shore of her now."
"Wy, it stan's ter reason, mother—"
"That a good girl 'll look down on her own folks because she knows verbs and angles and languages an' they don't! I know Lally, at any rate, better 'n that. Now you go 'long back ter your mowin', afore the dew's all off the grass. It's the third time you've ben in about this notion," said his wife, rubbing the crumbs of flour off her hands. "Ef we can't trust our own child, the world can't come to an end too soon!"
"That's jes w'at I'm thinkin'," he said. "And I don't want it to come to an end. It's ben a pleasant world; an' the thought of her comin' home has ben the pleasantest part of it—I mean, of course, the pleasantest sence them old days w'en I merried you! But I've ben doin' a sight of thinkin' lately,—an' w'en a girl's ben gone all these years, an' ben amongst the folks thet knows everything an' comes back home to the folks thet don't know much of anythin'—"
"They're her folks, though. An' blood's thicker 'n water. An' she's Lally."
"Yes, she's Lally. But I—but you—I've tried, mother,—I've spelt over them books she's sent home; but I can't make nothin' out'n 'em. My glasses don't no-ways fit my eyes—"
"Now, father! It ain't likely but Lally's seen enough of the folks that can read them books. She don't love us because we can read books or can't read 'em. She loves us because we're ourselves. I wouldn't own her if she didn't!"
"That's jest it. You'll be gittin' put out 'ith her, an' there'll be trouble—"
"Now, Sam, you go right back to the mowin'-field! I gotter git my work done. I jes sent down some molasses an' ginger water, and it 'll be all warm,—and I sent some apple patties, too, an' you won't git your share,—and, anyway, you go along!"
Her husband dispiritedly pulled himself together. "I can't say as I git much encouragement from you," he said.
"Encouragement for what?" she asked. "For doubtin' your own child? That ain't what ye want." And she laid her floury hand on his shoulder. "Sam," she said, "we've allus got each other."
"It ain't enough," he said, with something like a sob. "It ain't enough without her."
"Well, I guess that's right," said his wife.
"Emerline, I don't mean"—turning about again—"I—"
"Oh, I know what you mean! Now if you don't make tracks that timothy 'll be the thickness of rushes!" And he went out slowly, his shoulders stooped as if carrying a load.
His wife sat down and cried a little then. If you know why, it is more than she did. And then she bustled about till old Fuzz found his safe refuge under the stove, and the pantry shelves bent with the weight of pies and crullers and poundcakes and the cold roast lamb. The men had had their dinner in the mowing-
