And
Loretta and the step-mother--they, too, ate with their knives and
used their fingers. Poor June quivered with a vague newborn
disgust. Ah, had she not changed--in ways they could not see!
June helped clear away the dishes--the old woman did not object to
that--listening to the gossip of the mountains--courtships,
marriages, births, deaths, the growing hostility in the feud, the
random killing of this man or that--Hale's doings in Lonesome
Cove.
"He's comin' over hyeh agin next Saturday," said the old woman.
"Is he?" said Loretta in a way that made June turn sharply from
her dishes toward her. She knew Hale was not coming, but she said
nothing. The old woman was lighting her pipe.
"Yes--you better be over hyeh in yo' best bib and tucker."
"Pshaw," said Loretta, but June saw two bright spots come into her
pretty cheeks, and she herself burned inwardly. The old woman was
looking at her.
"'Pears like you air mighty quiet, June."
"That's so," said Loretta, looking at her, too.
June, still silent, turned back to her dishes. They were beginning
to take notice after all, for the girl hardly knew that she had
not opened her lips.
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