“Oh, very well,” he said crossly. “Of course, if I knew some boys here, it wouldn’t matter so much.”
“Then if you had boys to play with you wouldn’t love me? Oh, you unkind cruel boy!”
“No—you know what I mean; I’d like you just the same, but I shouldn’t need you so much. There’s nothing to get angry about— Now?— What?— Oh!”
For Lee was weeping bitterly.
Cecil suddenly remembered that he was cold, and hungry, and tired, and lost. And he was confronted with a scene. What Lee was crying about he had but a vague idea. For a moment he contemplated a hug,—on general principles,—but remembered in time that when his father attempted cajolement his stepmother always wept the louder. So he remarked with the nervous haste of man when he knows that he is not rising to the occasion:
“We’ll stay here till morning and then I’ll take your apron off and put it on the top of a long stick and somebody’ll be sure to see. It’s exactly like being shipwrecked.”
“I never was shipwrecked,” sobbed Lee; “I’m sure I shouldn’t like it.”
“We’ve had adventures, anyhow, and that’s what you wanted.”
“I don’t like adventures. They’re not very interesting, and I’m all scratched up, and hungry, and tired.”
“We’ve not been attacked by a bear. You ought to be thankful for that.”