That horse had been a fine animal. His father had let him tend it from
the start. He had broken it in and had loved it above everything else.
His father had complained that he used to feed it too well, and often he
had been obliged to steal out and smuggle oats to it.
Once, when he ventured to talk with his father about letting him buy a
broadcloth suit, or having the cart painted, his father stood as if
petrified, and he thought the old man would have a stroke. He tried to
make his father understand that, when he had a fine horse to drive, he
should look presentable himself.
The father made no reply, but two days later he took the horse to Oerebro
and sold it.
It was cruel of him. But it was plain that his father had feared that
this horse might lead him into vanity and extravagance. And now, so long
afterward, he had to admit that his father was right. A horse like that
surely would have been a temptation. At first he had grieved terribly
over his loss. Many a time he had gone down to Oerebro, just to stand on
a street corner and see the horse pass by, or to steal into the stable
and give him a lump of sugar. He thought: "If I ever get the farm, the
first thing I do will be to buy back my horse."
Now his father was gone and he himself had been master for two years,
but he had not made a move toward buying the horse.
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