The next day I took a "turn" of corn to the water-mill, far down the stream. The old man had not been off the place since Alf went to jail, and the office of attending to all outside affairs was conferred upon me. Guinea came out to the corn-crib and stood at the door, looking in upon me as I tied the mouth of the bag. The old man was not far off, calling his hogs; a sad cry at any time, but growing sadder, it seemed to me, as the days wore along.
"Old Moll will have a load," the girl said; "you and that bag."
"Yes, if I were to ride on the bag like a boy, but I'm going to walk and lead her."
"Oh, that will be nice," she cried. "Nice for Moll. I wish I could go with you. It's beautiful all down that way; high rocks and pools with fish in them. It isn't so awfully far, either. I have walked it many a time."
"Alone?" I asked, tugging at the string.
"That doesn't matter. It's the distance I'm talking about. Why, you haven't asked me to go."
"But I ask you now," I said, dragging the bag toward the door.
"No, I won't go now," she replied, making way for me to come out.
"Won't you, please?"
"No, not since I have come to think about it. I'd have to walk along all the time with my hands to my ears, for I just know you'd say something I don't want to hear. You are as cruel as you can be, lately."