All the way up the mountain he was cursing. Under the gentle voice
of the big Pine he was cursing still, and when his lips stopped,
his heart was beating curses as he dropped down the other side of
the mountain.
When he reached the river, he got off his horse and bathed his
mouth and his eyes again, and he cursed afresh when the blood
started afresh at his lips again. For a while he sat there in his
black mood, undecided whether he should go to his uncle's cabin or
go on home. But he had seen a woman's figure in the garden as he
came down the spur, and the thought of June drew him to the cabin
in spite of his shame and the questions that were sure to be
asked. When he passed around the clump of rhododendrons at the
creek, June was in the garden still. She was pruning a rose-bush
with Bub's penknife, and when she heard him coming she wheeled,
quivering. She had been waiting for him all day, and, like an
angry goddess, she swept fiercely toward him. Dave pretended not
to see her, but when he swung from his horse and lifted his sullen
eyes, he shrank as though she had lashed him across them with a
whip.
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