"We're not talking about horses, father," said Mrs. Vick sharply. "Who said we was?" demanded old Caleb. "Most people think she's good-looking," said Rosabel, somewhat grudgingly. "And she isn't any taller than I am, Mr. White." "Well, you ain't no dwarft, Rosie," exclaimed Farmer White, with a brave laugh. "You must be five foot seven or eight, but you ain't skinny like she is. She'd ought to weigh about a hunderd and sixty, for her height, and I'll bet she don't weigh more'n a hunderd and thirty." "I wouldn't call that skinny," remarked Courtney. "She wears these here new-fangled britches when she's on horseback," said old Caleb, justifying his observation. "Rides straddle, like a man. You can't help seeing what kind of--" "That will do, Pa," broke in his wife. "It's no crime for a woman to wear pants when she's riding, although I must say I don't think it's very modest. I never rode any way except side-saddle,--and neither has Rosabel. I've brought her up--" "Don't you be too sure of that, Ma," interrupted young Caleb maliciously. "I never did it but once, and you know it, Cale Vick," cried Rosabel, blushing violently. The subject was abruptly changed by Mr. White. "Well, I guess I'll be moseyin' along home, Amos. That certainly did sound like thunder, didn't it? And that tree-toad has stopped signallin',--that's a sure sign. Like as not I'll get caught in the rain if I don't,--what say, Lucindy?" "Do you want an umberell, Steve?" "I should say not! What do you want me to do? Scare the rain off? No, sir! Rain's the funniest thing in the world. If it sees you got an umberell it won't come within a hunderd miles of you. That's why I got my Sunday clothes on, and my new straw hat. Sometimes that'll bring rain out of a clear sky,--that an' a Sunday-school picnic. It's a pity we couldn't have got up a Sunday-school picnic,--but then, of course, that wouldn't have done any good. You can't fool a rainstorm. So long, Amos. Night, everybody. Night, Courtney. As I was sayin' awhile ago, I used to go to school with your pa when him an' me was little shavers,--up yonder at the old Kennedy schoolhouse. Fifty odd years ago. Seems like yesterday. How old did you say you was?" "Twenty-eight, Mr. White." "And your pa's been dead--how long did you say?" "He died when I was twenty-two." "Funny your ma didn't bring him out here and bury him 'longside his father and all the rest of 'em up in the family burying-ground," was Mr. White's concluding observation as he ambled off down the gravel walk to the front gate. "I wish you'd brought your croix de guerre along with you, Mr. Thane," said young Caleb, his eyes gleaming in the faint light from the open door. "I guess I don't pronounce it as it ought to be. I'm not much of a hand at French."