Howwretchedlyfamiliaritallwas!Themirycowyard，withthehollowtrampledoutaroundthehorsetrough，thedisconsolatehensstandingunderthewagonsandsheds，apigwallowingacrossitssty，andforatmospherethedesolate，fallingrain。Itwassofamiliarhefeltapangoftheoldrebelliousdespairwhichseizedhimonsuchdaysinhisboyhood。
Catchingupcourage，hesteppedoutonthegrass，openedthegate，andenteredthebarnyard。Anarrowribbonofturfranaroundthefence，onwhichhecouldwalkbyclingingwithonehandtotheroughboards。Inthiswayheslowlymadehiswayaroundtheperiphery，andcameatlasttotheopenbarndoorwithoutmuchharm。
Itwasadesolateinterior。IntheopenfloorwayGrant，seateduponahalf-bushel，wasmendingaharness。Theoldmanwasholdingthetraceinhishardbrownhands；theboywaslyingonawispofhay。Itwasasmallbarn，andpooratthat。Therewasabadsmell，asofdeadrats，aboutit，andtherainfellthroughtheshingleshereandthere。Totheright，andbelow，thehorsesstood，lookingupwiththeircalmandbeautifuleyes，inwhichthewholescenewasidealized。
Grantlookedupaninstantandthenwentonwithhiswork。
“Didyehwadethrough？“grinnedLewis，exposinghisbrokenteeth。