“He bought it from the company. It's just as well you're goin' away, Uncle Judd. He'd put you out.”
“I reckon not. I got writin' from the company which 'lows me to stay here two year or more—if I want to.”
“I don't know. He's a slick one.”
“I heerd him say,” put in Bub stoutly, “that he'd see that we stayed here jus' as long as we pleased.”
“Well,” said old Judd shortly, “ef we stay here by his favour, we won't stay long.”
There was silence for a while. Then Dave spoke again for the listening ears outside—maliciously:
“I went over to the Gap to see if I couldn't git the place myself from the company. I believe the Falins ain't goin' to bother us an' I ain't hankerin' to go West. But I told him that you-all was goin' to leave the mountains and goin' out thar fer good.” There was another silence.
“He never said a word.” Nobody had asked the question, but he was answering the unspoken one in the heart of June, and that heart sank like a stone.
“He's goin' away hisself-goin' ter-morrow—goin' to that same place he went before—England, some feller called it.”
Dave had done his work well. June rose unsteadily, and with one hand on her heart and the other clutching the railing of the porch, she crept noiselessly along it, staggered like a wounded thing around the chimney, through the garden and on, still clutching her heart, to the woods—there to sob it out on the breast of the only mother she had ever known.