TOM GROGAN
Carl hesitated for a moment, looked cautiously about the yard, and walked slowly toward the house, his eyes on the fragments. He never went to the house except when he was invited, either to hear Pop read or to take his dinner with the other men. At this instant Jennie came running out, the shawl about her head.
“Oh, Carl, did you find my apron? It blew away, and I thought it might have gone into the yard.”
“Yas, mees; an' da goat see it too—luke!” extending the tattered fragments, anger and sorrow struggling for the mastery in his face.
“Well, I never! Carl, it was a bran'-new one. Now just see, all the strings torn off and the top gone! I'm just going to give Stumpy a good beating.”
Carl suggested that he run after the goat and bring him back; but Jennie thought he was down the road by this time, and Carl had been working all the morning and must be tired. Besides, she must get some wood.
Carl instantly forgot the goat. He had forgotten everything, indeed, except the trim little body who stood before him looking into
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