"I should say not," he said teasingly. "What did you say your name
was?"
"What's YO' name?"
The fisherman laughed. He was just becoming accustomed to the
mountain etiquette that commands a stranger to divulge himself
first.
"My name's--Jack."
"An' mine's--Jill." She laughed now, and it was his time for
surprise--where could she have heard of Jack and Jill?
His line rang suddenly.
"Jack," she cried, "you got a bite!"
He pulled, missed the strike, and wound in. The minnow was all
right, so he tossed it back again.
"That isn't your name," he said.
"If 'tain't, then that ain't your'n?"
"Yes 'tis," he said, shaking his head affirmatively.
A long cry came down the ravine:
"J-u-n-e! eh--oh--J-u-n-e!" That was a queer name for the
mountains, and the fisherman wondered if he had heard aright--
June.
The little girl gave a shrill answering cry, but she did not move.
"Thar now!" she said.
"Who's that--your Mammy?"
"No, 'tain't--hit's my step-mammy. I'm a goin' to ketch hell now."
Her innocent eyes turned sullen and her baby mouth tightened.
"Good Lord!" said the fisherman, startled, and then he stopped--
the words were as innocent on her lips as a benediction.
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