"'Tain't costin' you nothin'," answered June quietly, and she
picked up a pail and went out into the frosty, shivering daybreak
to the old well. The chain froze her fingers, the cold water
splashed her feet, and when she had tugged her heavy burden back
to the kitchen, she held her red, chapped hands to the fire.

"I reckon you'll be mighty glad to git shet o' me." The old woman
sniffled, and June looked around with a start.

"Pears like I'm goin' to miss ye right smart," she quavered, and
June's face coloured with a new feeling towards her step-mother.

"I'm goin' ter have a hard time doin' all the work and me so
poorly."

"Lorrety is a-comin' over to he'p ye, if ye git sick," said June,
hardening again. "Or, I'll come back myself." She got out the
dishes and set them on the table.

"You an' me don't git along very well together," she went on
placidly. "I never heerd o' no step-mother and children as did,
an' I reckon you'll be might glad to git shet o' me."

"Pears like I'm going to miss ye a right smart," repeated the old
woman weakly.

June went out to the stable with the milking pail. Her father had
spread fodder for the cow and she could hear the rasping of the
ears of corn against each other as he tumbled them into the trough
for the old sorrel. She put her head against the cow's soft flank