“I know that,” said he; “but you can’t get or keep those better things without hard work and common sense. Valuable things have to be paid for.”
“The very best things can’t be bought,” said she.
“You can’t get them any other way,” said he.
Benedicta was growing rather angry.
“Not good blood,” she said. “Not family and traditions.”
“But, see here!” he interposed. “Haven’t you ever heard or read how the people we came from—the old Millers and the Dumalls—got what we’re so proud of now? They bought all they ever had. They often paid with their lives, and always with the hardest, most dangerous kind of service. After they’d come to this country and cleared their land, they had to defend it. All the Dumalls who amounted to anything were fighters in one way or another—not necessarily soldiers, but men who held their own. When they stopped fighting—and paying—they didn’t amount to anything any more. I don’t intend to spend my life talking about what other and better men have done before me. I’m a man myself, and I mean to do something worth doing!”
Benedicta was a traitor. She agreed with every word he said. She was so thrilled by his boyish spirit that she could have wept with pride and joy. She thought to herself that he was like a knight, that he was the bravest, finest, most wonderful creature who had ever walked the earth.
“I’m sure you will!” she cried.
He stopped short.
“Do you really think so, Benedicta?” he asked.