from the spring, he went into the shed room, tarried there a minute and came out buttoning up his shirt at the neck.
"Whe you gwine?" Mary asked him timidly.
He waited a minute; then he asked, "How-come you got to know evywhe I go, here lately? I'm gwine whe I'm gwine. Dat's whe I'm gwine." His words ripped through the quiet.
The room was hot. Its close air was full of the smell of steam from the pots and smoke from July's pipe. There was scarcely a sound except Mary's sniffles. July walked to the fireplace and stirred among the ashes, selecting a small live coal which he dropped into his pipe bowl. Her back was turned to him, but she knew how his lips were drawn, how his pipe stem was gripped between his set teeth, how his chin was pushed forward, how his lean young face had grown hard and set.
"How-come you duh cry?"
How could she tell him when he stood there smoking, gazing down at the sticks of wood, jerking out his words so vexedly.
Instead of going to fetch the cow home, for it was past milking time, he walked out, his heavy brows frowning, his wide lips tightened. Mary watched him from the window as far as she could see him walking to the very end of the street.
