"The little loft room is yours, Joyce, for as long as you want it," Isa was saying, through the sobering silence. "I ain't going to side with Jared Birkdale when a woman's sense of right has been roused. Jared's wits are the keenest and the cruelest round here, and the poison in his tongue is the deadliest; I guess I know. Are you coming in, child? The bed's made, but you best carry a pitcher of fresh water up with you."
"I'll be there in a minute, Isa, and the cracked pitcher's by the well, isn't it?"
"Yes," Isa replied; "and I'll leave a lighted candle for you, the ile is pretty low in the lamp. Good night, child, and don't fuss. I never saw fussing hurt any one but the fusser."
Joyce rose stiffly and stood by the open door. She stretched her limbs and winced at the pain in them. Then she clasped her aching hands above her head and permitted her tired spirit one long, heavy sigh.
She stood for some time in that relieved state. The chill of the deepening night soothed her, and the late new moon looked down through the pines at her—then she turned sharply. Some one was near!
Her startled glance fell upon Jude Lauzoon. He was crouching upon the step of the porch.
"I thought you was sleeping, standing up," he whispered hoarsely. "I didn't want to scare you none."
"Why are you here?" Joyce's heart fluttered. Had he heard all?
"Why are you?" Jude turned the tables.
"Where else should I be—to—to—" she looked at him appealingly, "to get ready to be married?"