"Yes." She slipped the pad into her bag.
"Amabel," said he, helpless between inevitable irritation and tenderest love of her, "you are a perfectly unspoiled piece of work from the hand of God Almighty. But if you're running with Weedon Moore, you're going to do an awful lot of harm."
"I hope not, dear," she said gravely, but with no understanding, he saw, that her pure intentions could lead her wrong.
"I've heard Weedon Moore talking to the men."
She gave him a look of acute interest.
"Really, Jeff? Now, where?"
"The old circus-ground. I heard him. And he's pulling down, Amabel. He's destroying. He's giving those fellows an idea of this country that's going to make them hate it, trample it—" He paused as if the emotion that choked him made him the more impatient of what caused it.
"That's it," said she, her own face settling into a mournful acquiescence. "We've earned hate. We must accept it. Till we can turn it into love."
"But he's preaching discontent."
"Ah, Jeffrey," said she, "there's a noble discontent. Where should we be without it?"