The moment before, Dick, who was half-stunned by the accusation, and ready to give up in despair, leaped to his feet and flung his arms about his mother’s waist. His eyes flashed and the colour flushed right up into his brows as he kissed her passionately again and again.
“You are right,” said the squire. “But speak out, Dick. You did not do this dastardly thing?”
“No, father,” said Dick, meeting his eyes boldly. “I couldn’t.”
“There, Marston,” said the squire; “and I will not insult Tom Tallington by accusing him.”
“Oh, no, father! we were together all the time.”
“But I say,” cried Tom, “old Dave said it was a chap in skates who set fire to his place, and he couldn’t follow him over the ice.”
“Yes; I’d forgotten,” cried Dick, “and he shot at him.”
“Then I am wrong once more, Dick,” said Mr Marston. “I beg your pardon. Will you forgive me?”
“Of course I will, Mr Marston,” said Dick huskily, as he took the extended hand; “but I don’t think you ought to be so ready to think ill of me.”
“And I say the same, Mr Marston,” said Mrs Winthorpe. “My boy is wilful, and he may have been a bit mischievous, but he could not be guilty of such cowardly tricks as these.”