ly the shadow of the cottonwood
tree at the corner of the pasture pointed directly to the north, the
boy unhitched, cleaned the cultivator shovels carefully with a handful
of grass and placed them upon the hooks. With the reins about his back,
he trudged up the long slope of the hill, through the warm dust,
swinging his water-pail in cadence with his steps. They reached the
top of the hill. The house was only a short distance from the road.
He could see his father carrying a basket of wood to the house. He
hoped that his father would not come and help him unharness the horses.
He wanted to be alone; he dreaded facing their conversation at the
dinner-table. His eyes grew hot again. Everything was so old to him!
He always came home just at dinner time, his father always worked about
the barn, finishing work a little before so that he might help unharness
the horses. And dinner was always ready when they came in the house. The
boy kicked a clod viciously.

At the water trough he stopped and the thirsty horses drank deeply. His
father came out of the barn, a pitchfork in his hand, and sat down on
the edge of the trough, fanning himself with his hat. The boy noticed
that his father seemed more tired than usual. His brown hair was already
mixed with gray and was damp where the hat had rested. His eyes seemed
less cheerful than usual, and his face less red.

When the horses raised their heads from the trough, the boy led them to
their stalls. His father followed him.

"How was cultivatin', Frank?" he asked as he stepped into the barn.

"Oh, it wasn't bad."

"The ground was pretty hard, wasn't it?"

"Not very."

In silence they unharnessed the horses, which buried their heads in the
newly-cut hay and blew the fragrant, spicy dust from their nostrils. As
the boy unloosed the collar of his horse, it slipped and fell upon his
foot. His face writhed in a flash of temper and he began cursing in a
low tone, heavily and deliberately. Then he picked up the collar and
struck the horse. Under lowered eyelashes he saw his father stand in the
doorway, his face white with repressed anger. The boy stopped suddenly.
He had never seen his father look like that before. He heard him turn in
the doorway.

The horses fed, they walked through the hot, deserted farm-yard to the
house. As they entered the shaded living-room, his mother came from the
kitchen, humming a bit of tune. Her eyes lit up when she saw them. She
talked cheerfully as