"Sons," he said, in a broken voice, "I ain't been a good father to ye. I've got to spend the last o' my life in rootin' up the weeds I sowed the fust part. I don't want you to have such a crop. Now you go 'long out an' be good sons. Your mother'll be sot up, an' you mind what she says, an' I'll soon come home. Take good care o' the leetle gal," and passing his hand, first over one brown head, then over the other, he tramped away out of view among the snowy spruces.