But it was on June's
musical talent that Hale's sister always laid most stress, and on
her voice which, she said, was really unusual. June wrote, too, at
longer and longer intervals and in her letters, Hale could see the
progress she was making--the change in her handwriting, the
increasing formality of expression, and the increasing shrewdness
of her comments on her fellow-pupils, her teachers and the life
about her. She did not write home for a reason Hale knew, though
June never mentioned it--because there was no one at home who
could read her letters--but she always sent messages to her father
and Bub and to the old miller and old Hon, and Hale faithfully
delivered them when he could.
From her people, as Hale learned from his sister, only one
messenger had come during the year to June, and he came but once.
One morning, a tall, black-haired, uncouth young man, in a slouch
hat and a Prince Albert coat, had strode up to the school with a
big paper box under his arm and asked for June. As he handed the
box to the maid at the door, it broke and red apples burst from it
and rolled down the steps.
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