Her back ached, her arms were
tired to the shoulders and her burned hand quivered with pain when
all was done. The old woman had left her to do the last few little
things alone and had gone to her pipe. Both she and her father
were sitting in silence on the porch when June went out there.
Neither spoke to each other, nor to her, and both seemed to be
part of the awful stillness that engulfed the world. Bub fell
asleep in the soft air, and June sat and sat and sat. That was all
except for the stars that came out over the mountains and were
slowly being sprayed over the sky, and the pipings of frogs from
the little creek. Once the wind came with a sudden sweep up the
river and she thought she could hear the creak of Uncle Billy's
water-wheel. It smote her with sudden gladness, not so much
because it was a relief and because she loved the old miller, but-
-such is the power of association--because she now loved the mill
more, loved it because the mill over in the Gap had made her think
more of the mill at the mouth of Lonesome Cove. A tapping vibrated
through the railing of the porch on which her cheek lay.
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