And when the voice came, instead of bursting into tears as
she was about to do, she gave a hard little laugh and she lifted a
defiant face to the rising sun. There was a limit to the sacrifice
for kindred, brother, father, home, and that limit was the eternal
sacrifice--the eternal undoing of herself: when this wretched
terrible business was over she would set her feet where that sun
could rise on her, busy with the work that she could do in that
world for which she felt she was born. Swiftly she did the morning
chores and then she sat on the porch thinking and waiting.
Spinning wheel, loom, and darning needle were to lie idle that
day. The old step-mother had gotten from bed and was dressing
herself--miraculously cured of a sudden, miraculously active. She
began to talk of what she needed in town, and June said nothing.
She went out to the stable and led out the old sorrel-mare. She
was going to the hanging.
"Don't you want to go to town, June?"
"No," said June fiercely.
"Well, you needn't git mad about it--I got to go some day this
week, and I reckon I might as well go ter-day." June answered
nothing, but in silence watched her get ready and in silence
watched her ride away.
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