"I believe it so perfectly that I've no intention of trying," he rejoined.
"I'm not half so pretty as my mother was," she said after a pause.
Her loyalty to the unfortunate Janet touched him to sympathy. "Don't quarrel with me, Molly," he pleaded, "for I mean to be friends with you."
As he uttered the words, he was conscious of a pleasant feeling of self-approbation while his nature vibrated to the lofty impulse. This sensation was so gratifying while it lasted that his manner assumed a certain austerity as one who had determined to be virtuous at any cost. Morally he was on stilts for the moment, and the sense of elevation was as novel as it was insecure.
"I know you are a good girl, Molly," he observed staidly, "that is why I am so anxious to be your friend."
"Is there nothing more that I can do for you?" she inquired, with frigid reserve, as she took up the lantern.
"Yes, one thing—you can shake hands."
The expression of indignant surprise appeared again in her face, and she fell back a step, shaking her head stubbornly as she did so.
"I'd rather not—if you don't mind," she answered.
"But if I do mind—and I do."