Gran'pop and Tom sat on the front porch, their chairs touching,
his hand on hers. She had been telling him of Quigg's visit that
morning. She had changed her dress for a new one. The dress was
of brown cloth, and had been made in the village--tight where it
should be loose, and loose where it should be tight. She had put
it on, she told Pop, to make a creditable appearance before the
board that night.
Jennie was flitting in and out between the sitting-room and the
garden, her hands full of blossoms, filling the china jars on the
mantel: none of them contained Quigg's contribution. Patsy was
flat on his back on the small patch of green surrounding the
porch, playing circus-elephant with Stumpy, who stood over him
with leveled head.
Up the hill, but a few rods away, Cully was grazing the Big
Gray--the old horse munching tufts of fresh, sweet grass sprinkled
with dandelions. Cully walked beside him. Now and then he lifted
one of his legs, examining the hoof critically for possible tender
places.
There was nothing the matter with the Gray; the old horse was
still sound: but it satisfied Cully to be assured, and it
satisfied, too, a certain yearning tenderness in his heart toward
his old chum. Once in a while he would pat the Gray's neck,
smoothing his ragged, half worn mane, addressing him all the while
in words of endearment expressed in a slang positively profane and
utterly without meaning except to these two.
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