Her companion looked at his watch.
"We'd better be walking along," he remarked, and they entered a well-worn path just wide enough for two that led through the woods, but kept close to the small salt lake, whose shining blue shimmered between the branches.
"I haven't deceived you, little one," he answered.
"You knew that nothing would have induced me to be a guest at Judge Trent's farm," declared the girl hotly.
"What's the difference?" asked her companion mildly. "You were eating his bread in Boston."
Sylvia's cheeks flushed. "I—I"—she hesitated, "I wasn't going to do it long."
"You shan't do it here a day longer than you wish to," returned Thinkright. "Now, child, suppose a case. Suppose your Uncle Calvin and your Aunt Martha had shown you perfect love instead of indifference, how would you have felt toward them?"
"Loved them, of course, and been thankful." Sylvia's angry eyes grew moist.
"That would have been a happier state of mind than what you have now, wouldn't it?"
"Of course." All the girl's sore spots were aching. "Why do you ask such a question?"