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The place was Rawlins, Wyoming, and it was an outfitting point for a back country in Colorado hundreds of miles from the railroad. The chief figure in June's horizon was a stern-eyed, angular aunt who took the place of both father and mother and did her duty implacably. The two lived together forever, it seemed to the child. June wakened one night from the light of a lamp in her aunt's hand.
"Are you Jake June's hired man, the wrestler?" the shoe-maker asked, after Douglas had told him the purpose of his visit. "Yes, that's who I am," was the reply. "But how in the world did you hear about our wrestling match?" "Oh, news travels fast in Rixton, especially if Empty Dempster is the carrier."
"That's Uncle Billy's mill out thar." "Why, so it is," said Hale smiling. "That's fine." The school-house, to June's wonder, had shingles on the OUTSIDE around all the walls from roof to foundation, and a big bell hung on top of it under a little shingled roof of its own.
At a loss what to do, Helen Hale simply stretched out her hand, but drawn by June's timidity and the quick admiration and fear in her eyes, she leaned suddenly forward and kissed her. A grateful flush overspread the little girl's features and the pallor that instantly succeeded went straight-way to the sister's heart. "You are not well," she said quickly and kindly.
"Her tunic is of silver, Her veil of green tree-hair, The woodland Princess donning Her pomp of summer wear. White arms to heaven reaching, Shy buds that, tiptoe, meet The kiss of June's awaking, The season's hast'ning feet! Oh, sure, a laugh is lisping In each uncurling leaf; The joy of June is thrilling Some sense to transport brief! Sister of mine, White Birch Tree!
June's first thought was to go away, but instead she crossed to the long window opening on the little court. It was from there that the scent of the azaleas came, and, standing with their backs to her, their faces buried in the golden-pink blossoms, stood her lover and Irene. Silent but unashamed, with flaming cheeks and angry eyes, the girl watched.
"This here are a curious spell of weather," remarked Mother Mayberry, as she paused beside the singer lady who was holding Martin Luther up on the broad window-sill, and with him was looking disconsolately down the Road. "June's gone to acting like a woman with nerves that cries just because she can. I'm glad all the chicken babies are feathered out and can shed rain.
Not long the space between January's snowdrifts and June's red berries. Brief the interval between the egg and the eagle's full flight. Scarcely a score of years separates the infant of days from the youth of full stature.
As spring glided into summer, and June's long, bright, hay-scented days passed by, followed by July, with its hot sun pouring down on the ripening wheat and shaven hayfields, and on the trees, which had settled down into the monotonous green of summer, the little, brown-faced baby at the Grays' throve and flourished, and entwined itself round the hearts of the kindly people in whose care Providence, by the hands of the organist, had placed it.
She had held hands before, though not Daisy's; and she knew very well the look of the little whip with which her mistress stepped back into the room, having gone to her own for it. In a Southern home that whip had been wont to live in Mrs. Randolph's pocket. June's heart groaned within her. The whip was small but it had been made for use, not for play; and there was no play in Mrs.
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