“Take the horses, Bub,” said old Judd, and June entered the gate while Bub stood with the reins in his hand, still speechlessly staring her over from head to foot. There was her garden, thank God—with all her flowers planted, a new bed of pansies and one of violets and the border of laurel in bloom—unchanged and weedless.
“One o' Jack Hale's men takes keer of it,” explained old Judd, and again, with shame, June felt the hurt of her lover's thoughtfulness. When she entered the cabin, the same old rasping petulant voice called her from a bed in one corner, and when June took the shrivelled old hand that was limply thrust from the bed-clothes, the old hag's keen eyes swept her from head to foot with disapproval.
“My, but you air wearin' mighty fine clothes,” she croaked enviously. “I ain't had a new dress fer more'n five year;” and that was the welcome she got.
“No?” said June appeasingly. “Well, I'll get one for you myself.”
“I'm much obleeged,” she whined, “but I reckon I can git along.”
A cough came from the bed in the other corner of the room.
“That's Dave,” said the old woman, and June walked over to where her cousin's black eyes shone hostile at her from the dark.
“I'm sorry, Dave,” she said, but Dave answered nothing but a sullen “howdye” and did not put out a hand—he only stared at her in sulky bewilderment, and June went back to listen to the torrent of the old woman's plaints until Bub came in. Then as she turned, she noticed for the first time that a new door had been cut in one side of the cabin, and Bub was following the direction of her eyes.
“Why, haint nobody told ye?” he said delightedly.
“Told me what, Bub?”