“No, he wouldn’t. Look here, Jen! if you say anything about it I’ll—say now, you won’t, will you?”
“N—no, not if you don’t want me to, but I’m awful scared about it. What’ll Mother say?” asked the girl, wiping from her eyes the fast-falling tears.
“That’s where the trouble is, Jen,” replied the boy, leaning on the handle of his hoe, and gazing reflectively off to the hills. “I hate to leave Mother, she’s good to me; but Father and I can’t get along together after what’s happened to-day, that’s plain.”
“And won’t you ever come back again?” asked Jennie, plaintively.
“Not for seven years,” answered Joe; “then I’ll be twenty-one, an’ my own boss, and I can go fishing whenever I feel like it.”
“O Joe!” Jennie’s tears fell still faster. “Joe! I’m afraid—what—made you—tell me?”
“You asked me!”
“But I didn’t—didn’t want you to tell me anything—anything so dreadful!”
From the direction of the house came the sound of the supper-bell. Joe shouldered his hoe again; Jennie rose from her seat on a rock, and together they walked slowly home. On the way Joe exacted from Jennie a faithful promise that she would tell nothing about his plan.
At the supper-table Joe was silent and moody, and ate little. After doing the portion of the chores that fell to his lot, he went at once to his room. His back still smarted and ached from the whipping; his mind was still troubled, and indignation and rebellion still ruled in his breast.