"Back there, driving those oxen." The voice shouted: "Whoa! Git-ap! Gee! Red, git over there now, will you? I'll trim the shin off'n you in a minute. Whoa! Haw! Haw! Whoa! Git-ap!" Hawker repeated, "Yes, that's my father." "Oh, is it?" she said. "Let's wait for him." "All right," said Hawker sullenly. Presently a team of oxen waddled into view around the curve of the road. They swung their heads slowly from side to side, bent under the yoke, and looked out at the world with their great eyes, in which was a mystic note of their humble, submissive, toilsome lives. An old wagon creaked after them, and erect upon it was the tall and tattered figure of the farmer swinging his whip and yelling: "Whoa! Haw there! Git-ap!" The lash flicked and flew over the broad backs of the animals. "Hello, father!" said Hawker. "Whoa! Back! Whoa! Why, hello, William, what you doing here?" "Oh, just taking a walk. Miss Fanhall, this is my father. Father----" "How d' you do?" The old man balanced himself with care and then raised his straw hat from his head with a quick gesture and with what was perhaps a slightly apologetic air, as if he feared that he was rather over-doing the ceremonial part. The girl later became very intent upon the oxen. "Aren't they nice old things?" she said, as she stood looking into the faces of the team. "But what makes their eyes so very sad?" "I dunno," said the old man. She was apparently unable to resist a desire to pat the nose of the nearest ox, and for that purpose she stretched forth a cautious hand. But the ox moved restlessly at the moment and the girl put her hand apprehensively behind herself and backed away. The old man on the wagon grinned. "They won't hurt you," he told her. "They won't bite, will they?" she asked, casting a glance of inquiry at the old man and then turning her eyes again upon the fascinating animals. "No," said the old man, still grinning, "just as gentle as kittens." She approached them circuitously. "Sure?" she said. "Sure," replied the old man. He climbed from the wagon and came to the heads of the oxen. With him as an ally, she finally succeeded in patting the nose of the nearest ox. "Aren't they solemn, kind old fellows? Don't you get to think a great deal of them?" "Well, they're kind of aggravating beasts sometimes," he said. "But they're a good yoke--a good yoke. They can haul with anything in this region." "It doesn't make them so terribly tired, does it?" she said hopefully. "They are such strong animals." "No-o-o," he said. "I dunno. I never thought much about it." With their heads close together they became so absorbed in their conversation that they seemed to forget the painter. He sat on a log and watched them. Ultimately the girl said, "Won't you give us a ride?"