Hale gravely crossed heart and body and June gave out a happy little laugh—for he had caught that gesture—a favourite one—from her. Then suddenly:
“How long?” She was thinking of what Dave said, but the subtle twist in her meaning passed Hale by. He raised his eyes to the sun and June shook her head.
“You got to go home 'fore sundown.”
She dropped her hoe and came over toward him.
“Whut you doin' with them—those weeds?”
“Going to plant 'em in our garden.” Hale had got a theory from a garden-book that the humble burdock, pig-weed and other lowly plants were good for ornamental effect, and he wanted to experiment, but June gave a shrill whoop and fell to scornful laughter. Then she snatched the weeds from him and threw them over the fence.
“Why, June!”
“Not in MY garden. Them's stagger-weeds—they kill cows,” and she went off again.
“I reckon you better c-consult me 'bout weeds next time. I don't know much 'bout flowers, but I've knowed all my life 'bout WEEDS.” She laid so much emphasis on the word that Hale wondered for the moment if her words had a deeper meaning—but she went on:
“Ever' spring I have to watch the cows fer two weeks to keep 'em from eatin'—those weeds.” Her self-corrections were always made gravely now, and Hale consciously ignored them except when he had something to tell her that she ought to know. Everything, it seemed, she wanted to know.