"I understand you're one o' these folks that's talking so foolish about prohibition, and about shutting up the hotel. Is that so?" demanded Mrs. Moore, her sunken, black eyes snapping.
"I don't think it is foolish, Mrs. Moore," Janice said pleasantly.
"And we don't wish to close the Inn—only its bar."
"Same thing," decided Mrs. Moore snappishly. "Takin' the bread and butter out o' people's mouths! Ye better be in better business—all of ye. And a young girl like you! I'd like to have my stren'th and have the handling of you, Janice Day. I'd teach ye that children better be seen than heard. Where you going to, Cross Moore?" for her husband had turned the chair and was starting away from the fence.
"Well—now—Mother! You've told the girl yer mind, ain't ye?" suggested Mr. Moore. "That's what you wanted to do, wasn't it?"
"I wish she was my young one," said Mrs. Moore, between her teeth, "and
I had the use o' my limbs. I'd make her behave herself!"
"I wish she was ours, Mother," Mr. Moore said kindly. "I guess we'd be mighty proud of her."
Janice did not hear his words. She had walked away from the fence with flaming cheeks and tears in her eyes. She was sorry for Mrs. Moore's misfortunes and had always tried to be kind to her; but this seemed such an unprovoked attack.
Janice Day craved approbation as much as any girl living. She
appreciated the smiles that met her as she walked the streets of
Polktown. The scowls hurt her tender heart, and the harsh words of
Mrs. Moore wounded her deeply.
"I suppose that is the way they both feel toward me," she thought, with a sigh.
The wreck of the old fishing dock—a favorite haunt of little Lottie Drugg—was at the foot of the hill, and Janice halted here a moment to look out across it, and over the quiet cove, to the pine-covered point that gave the shallow basin its name.