"It means, Drennie," he said, "that you may make a pet of a leopard cub, but there will come a day when something of the jungle comes out in him —and he must go. My uncle has been shot, and the feud is on—I've been sent for."
He paused, and she half-whispered in an appealing voice:
"Don't go."
"You don't mean that," he said, quietly. "If it were you, you would go. Whether I get back here or not"—he hesitated—"my gratitude will be with you—always." He broke off, and said suddenly: "Drennie, I don't want to say good-by to you. I can't."
"It's not necessary yet," she answered. "I'm going to drive you to New
York."
"No!" he exclaimed. "It's too far, and I've got to go fast——"
"That's why I'm going," she promptly assured him. "I'm the only fool on these premises that can get all the speed out of a car that's in her engine—and the constables are good to me. I just came up here to—" she hesitated, then added—"to see you alone for a moment, and to say that teacher has never had such a bright little pupil, in her life—and—" the flippancy with which she was masking her feeling broke and she added, in a shaken voice as she thrust out her hand, man-fashion—"and to say, God keep you, boy."
He seized the hand in both his own, and gripped it hard. He tried to speak, but only shook his head with a rueful smile.
"I'll be waiting at the door with the car," she told him, as she left.
Horton, too, came in to volunteer assistance.