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Show 162 He was in the little black buggy and he had no hat. His hair was awry and he looked haggard. He must have traveled most of the night to get there that early in the morning. Probably came home late, did the chores, tried to sleep and couldn't. I learned about such nights much later in my life. I stopped and faced him. "I'm coming home, " I told him icily. "But for Mama, not for you. " "Next time you pull such a trick I'll send the sheriff: after you, not bother to come myself. " We might have both said something different if we had given each other a chance. I was bruised from forty miles on horseback by time I got home, battered in mind and spirit, and couldn't get out of bed for three or four days. Papa ignored me and Macel scolded me for not doing my share of the work. The pie was exceedingly humble, and my wounds healed slowly. I couldn't stop crying, but my tears had a healing influence. I suppose I bordered on nervous collapse. Papa and I were strangers, but he didn't shout and swear at me any more, and I didn't sass him any more. As soon as I could I got back into the work, but everything was different from then on. Eventually Mama came home, but she was in a wheel chair, still very sick, too occupied with her own inability to bolster relationships between Papa and I as she had always done, repeating to me his comments: "Look at that girl ride! She looks as if she had been born in |