She drew herself up and cast a look upon Jared that he never forgot to his dying day. It was an added faggot to that hell of his.
"Isa Tate," the even voice broke upon him, "Isa Tate said you killed my mother. But I'm not afraid of you, and I'm going to live my life. You can't kill me! I know when and where to go."
With that she gathered up the work that had fallen to the floor, and almost ran into the little bedchamber beyond the kitchen, closing the door after her.
Jared sat dumbly staring at the wooden barrier. He longed to call her, but his tongue pricked with excitement.
He dared not go to her—so he waited. He heard her moving about inside the room. A half-hour passed, then an hour. Noon came and went. The fire was out, and dinner, apparently, was as distant as it had been two hours before.
Jared fell asleep in his hard chair, his dishevelled head lying on his arms folded on the bare table. When he awoke it was three o'clock and Joyce stood before him.
She was very white, and the drawn look was still in evidence. She wore a blue-and-white checked gown; short and scant it was, but daintily fresh and sweet. She had her poor little best hat on—a hat with a bunch of roses on the side—and she carried a large basket in her hand.
Jared stared at her as if she were part of a nightmarish dream.
"Where are you going?" he asked hoarsely, a new fear gripping him.
"It doesn't matter to you, father. I'm just—going."