A row of rough
wooden houses ran along its edge. The geese cackled a doubtful
welcome. A new dog leaped barking from the porch and a tall boy
sprang after him--both running for the gate.
"Why, Bub," cried June, sliding from her horse and kissing him,
and then holding him off at arms' length to look into his steady
gray eyes and his blushing face.
"Take the horses, Bub," said old Judd, and June entered the gate
while Bub stood with the reins in his hand, still speechlessly
staring her over from head to foot. There was her garden, thank
God--with all her flowers planted, a new bed of pansies and one of
violets and the border of laurel in bloom--unchanged and weedless.
"One o' Jack Hale's men takes keer of it," explained old Judd, and
again, with shame, June felt the hurt of her lover's
thoughtfulness. When she entered the cabin, the same old rasping
petulant voice called her from a bed in one corner, and when June
took the shrivelled old hand that was limply thrust from the bed-
clothes, the old hag's keen eyes swept her from head to foot with
disapproval.
"My, but you air wearin' mighty fine clothes," she croaked
enviously.
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