Лето
VI
Shewishedhehadnotaskedhertotakehimthatdaytothebrownhouse;shedidnotwanthimtoseethepeopleshecamefromwhilethestoryofherbirthwasfreshinhismind.MorethanonceshehadbeenonthepointofsuggestingthattheyshouldfollowtheridgeanddrivestraighttoHamblin,wheretherewasalittledesertedhousehewantedtosee;butshynessandprideheldherback.“He’dbetterknowwhatkindoffolksIbelongto,”shesaidtoherself,withasomewhatforceddefiance;forinrealityitwasshamethatkepthersilent.
Suddenlysheliftedherhandandpointedtothesky.“There’sastormcomingup.”
Hefollowedherglanceandsmiled.“Isitthatscrapofcloudamongthepinesthatfrightensyou?”
“It’sovertheMountain;andacloudovertheMountainalwaysmeanstrouble.”
“Oh,Idon’tbelievehalfthebadthingsyouallsayoftheMountain!Butanyhow,we’llgetdowntothebrownhousebeforetheraincomes.”
Hewasnotfarwrong,foronlyafewisolateddropshadfallenwhentheyturnedintotheroadundertheshaggyflankofPorcupine,andcameuponthebrownhouse.Itstoodalonebesideaswampborderedwithalderthicketsandtallbulrushes.Notanotherdwellingwasinsight,anditwashardtoguesswhatmotivecouldhaveactuatedtheearlysettlerwhohadmadehishomeinsounfriendlyaspot.
Charityhadpickedupenoughofhercompanion’seruditiontounderstandwhathadattractedhimtothehouse.
