Hale went on, turned from the path and climbed noiselessly. When he caught sight of the beech he stopped still. June stood against it like a wood-nymph just emerged from its sun-dappled trunk--stood stretched to her full height, her hands behind her, her hair tossed, her throat tense under the dangling little cross, her face uplifted. At her feet, the play-house was scattered to pieces. She seemed listening to the love-calls of a woodthrush that came faintly through the still woods, and then he saw that she heard nothing, saw nothing--that she was in a dream as deep as sleep. Hale's heart throbbed as he looked. “June!” he called softly. She did not hear him, and when he called again, she turned her face--unstartled--and moving her posture not at all. Hale pointed to the scattered play-house. “I done it!” she said fiercely--“I done it myself.” Her eyes burned steadily into his, even while she lifted her hands to her hair as though she were only vaguely conscious that it was all undone. “YOU heerd me?” she cried, and before he could answer--“SHE heerd me,” and again, not waiting for a word from him, she cried still more fiercely: “I don't keer! I don't keer WHO knows.” Her hands were trembling, she was biting her quivering lip to keep back the starting tears, and Hale rushed toward her and took her in his arms. “June! June!” he said brokenly. “You mustn't, little girl. I'm proud--proud--why little sweetheart--” She was clinging to him and looking up into his eyes and he bent his head slowly. Their lips met and the man was startled. He knew now it was no child that answered him.