“I sat out on the steps because I wanted to,” she continued fiercely. “And what I do is no concern of yours, nor of anybody else’s.” Edward Black fell away without another word, and Julie continued her progress, still blown along by the gust of her rage. Presently she met Bessie Randolph, who was the wife of Silas Randolph, the president of the bank, a very important person in Hart’s Run. “See that couple there,” Mrs. Randolph said, joining Julie and pointing out the small man and his companion, who had been met by Wilson McLane, editor of the _Hart’s Run News_. “The man must be the new printer for the _News_. Mr. McLane told me he was expecting him by this train. That must be his wife with him.” “No, it’s his sister,” Julie corrected positively. She was not in the habit of contradicting. “Oh, then you’re acquainted with them?” the other challenged. “I never saw them before, but I noticed them on the train, and I know she’s his sister.” “Well, they don’t either of them look like much,” Mrs. Randolph said with a careless dismissal. “Come on Julie, I’ll ride you home; my car’s right here.” “I thank you,” Julie responded. “But I reckon I’ll walk.” Mrs. Randolph stared at her. People did not often so lightly refuse her condescension. “You better ride with all those bundles,” she urged. “No--no thank you. I want the walk,” Julie answered. “And besides, I don’t like automobiles. It scares me to ride in them.” For years Julie had been afraid of motors and for years she had tried to conceal the fact. This was the first time that she had ever dared to acknowledge it, much less to refuse an invitation from the elegant Mrs. Randolph. But now she gave a little indifferent bow of refusal, and went upon her way, still blown along by the gust of her anger, as she saw again in remembrance the incident on the train platform. “That _hateful_ woman!” she stormed to herself, the sneer on the woman’s face when she had called her companion a “maybe man” still sharp before her mental vision. “The hateful piece!” She found she was repeating over and over: “I know. I understand. I know. Oh, _don’t_ take it so hard! I know how hateful folks are!--He’s as unfeathered as I am,” she whispered to herself. “Things get at him just like they do me, an’ he don’t know any better how to stand up against them. I understand. I know how it is.--Well, anyhow,” she exulted, “I settled that hateful Ed Black for once! Always picking on me. Tore my paper doll up. Tramped on my cookie. Thought he could keep on bullyin’ me forever, but I settled _him_ all right!” The careful speech her mother had trained her to had slipped now, and she was reverting to the mountain phraseology.