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 ashy. What was July that she should grieve after him so? Nothing but a trifling low-down scoundrel, a worthless hound, yet she went on over his leaving, weeping in the night, hardly sleeping, not even wrapping her hair yesterday and it a Sunday, as if July were next to Jesus himself. She was a fool, a silly fool. She was lucky to be rid of him.

Budda's eyes snapped, his words crackled, but Mary made no answer. When Budda had spoken gently to her last night, it made her cry. She could bear scolding better than pity and tenderness.

Budda lighted his pipe and hobbled away, promising to come back to-night after supper.

When he had gone, Mary scoured the pots and pans, and straightened up the cabin, but every little while she went to the window and gazed toward the road that lead from the landing,—maybe July would come.

The days dragged slowly by, their mild sunshine pale to Mary's eyes. The long nights falling out of starry skies were still and well-nigh endless. People were as kind as could be to her. There was scarcely any field work to be done, but she had a gracious plenty to live on, with milk from her cow, the eggs her hens laid, the