A glimmer of amusement came into Mr. Danforth’s eyes. “I do admire pretty girls,” he said; “but you know there are different opinions as to that, too. We don’t all admire the same type, and perhaps what Ned Carew considers beautiful I might not.”
Lisa bit her lip. She wasn’t going to forgive him, she told herself. “You are very rude,” she said, petulantly, tearing the leaves to bits.
“And you will not forgive me because I will not say I prefer your looks to your soul.”
“I can’t have you say such things,” cried Lisa, passionately, rising and letting a shower of green fall from her lap. “What right have you to talk so? No one ever did so but my mother.”
A gentle look came into the young man’s eyes. “Perhaps,” he said, “I do it for the same reason: there is no friend like a mother.”
Lisa felt a strange sense of mingled fear and pleasure. Then she turned and held out her hand. “I forgive you,” she acknowledged. “Will you say the same?”
“There is no need,” replied Mr. Danforth; “you have done me a service, for you have shown me a fault.”
Such magnanimity! Lisa felt ashamed at being outdone by this—this pedagogue.
“Now,” continued Mr. Danforth, “let us talk of something else. I heard you say that little Ruth was mourning the disaster which happened to her doll, and you were wondering where you could find an old-fashioned head to supply the place of the one which was smashed. I think maybe I can help you out.”
“You?” And Lisa looked up. Was this man never to be done with his surprises?