' 'But why?' I asked. 'Do tell me the story about it, if you
know it.' 'I know it quite well, for she told me all about it once. It is
the shoe of a favourite mare of my father's--one he used to ride when he
went courting my mother. My grandfather did not like to have a young man
coming about the house, and so he came after the old folks were gone to
bed. But he had a long way to come, and he rode that mare. She had to go
over some stones to get to the stable, and my mother used to spread straw
there, for it was under the window of my grandfather's room, that her shoes
mightn't make a noise and wake him. And that's one of the shoes,' she said,
holding it up to me. 'When the mare died, my mother begged my father for
the one off her near forefoot, where she had so often stood and patted her
neck when my father was mounted to ride home again.'"
"But it was very naughty of her, wasn't it," said Wynnie, "to do that
without her father's knowledge?"
"I don't say it was right, my dear. But in looking at what is wrong, we
ought to look for the beginning of the wrong; and possibly we might find
that in this case farther back. If, for instance, a father isn't a father,
we must not be too hard in blaming the child for not being a child.
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