"I don't hate anybody but him. I hate him and I'm afraid of
him--just like you are."

"Oh, Billy," cried Rose, shocked to the quick. "You must never,
never say I hate your father--when you're older you'll
understand. He is a wonderful man."

"He's mean," said Billy succinctly. "When I get big I'm going to
run away."

"From me? Oh, darling, don't think such thoughts. Papa doesn't
intend to be mean. He just doesn't know what fun it is to play.
You see, dear, when he was a boy like you, he had to work, oh,
ever and ever so much more than you do--yes, he did," she nodded
solemnly at Bill's incredulous stare. "And his mother never
talked with him or held him close as I do you. She didn't have
time. Aunt Nellie has told me all about it. He just worked and
worked and worked--they all did. That's all there was in their
life--just work. Why, when he was your age, his father was at war
and papa and Grandmother Wade had to do everything. He did a
man's share at fourteen and by the time he was fifteen, he ran
this whole farm. Work has gotten to be a habit with him and it's
made him different from a great many people. But he thinks that
is why he's gone ahead and so he's trying to raise you the same
way. If he really didn't care about you, Billy, it wouldn't
bother him what you did."

In the silence that fell they could hear old Molly bellowing with
pathetic monotony for her calf that had been taken from her.