For Hale's
sister was going to marry, and it was her advice that he should
take June to New York if only for the sake of her music and her
voice. That very day June had for the first time seen her cousin
Dave. He was on horseback, he had been drinking and he pulled in
and, without an answer to her greeting, stared her over from head
to foot. Colouring angrily, she started on and then he spoke
thickly and with a sneer:
"'Bout fryin' size, now, ain't ye? I reckon maybe, if you keep on,
you'll be good enough fer him in a year or two more."
"I'm much obliged for those apples, Dave," said June quietly--and
Dave flushed a darker red and sat still, forgetting to renew the
old threat that was on his tongue.
But his taunt rankled in the girl--rankled more now than when Dave
first made it, for she better saw the truth of it and the hurt was
the greater to her unconquerable pride that kept her from
betraying the hurt to Dave long ago, and now, when he was making
an old wound bleed afresh. But the pain was with her at dinner
that night and through the evening. She avoided Hale's eyes though
she knew that he was watching her all the time, and her instinct
told her that something was going to happen that night and what
that something was.
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