Jack caught her bridle rein. "I swear to you," he said, "if Sir Bryson or any of the men——"
"I'm not thinking of them," Mary interrupted. "You can't stop her tongue. You've given her the right to speak that way."
Jack hung his head. Like a man under the circumstances he muttered: "You're pretty hard on a fellow."
"Hard?" cried Mary sharply. "What do you think I——" She checked herself with an odd smile.
Jack was determined to be aggrieved. "It's unfriendly," he burst out; "stealing out of camp by a roundabout way like this and even muffling your bell."
"That's what I said!" put in Davy.
Mary flashed a hurt look at Davy that forgave him while she accused. That he should take sides against her at such a moment—but of course he was only a child. She was silent. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she looked away over the little valley and the river for support. All three of them looked at the lovely scene below them, softened and silvered in the creeping twilight, each wondering miserably what had happened to the joy of life.
At last Mary said quietly: "It wasn't easy to decide what to do. I have to think of myself. I have to think of father, what he would like. There is nothing else. I am sorry. You and I cannot be friends. We might as well make up our minds to it."
"Why can't we be?" demanded Jack.
"Because you have chosen a girl that will not allow you to have another woman for a friend," she said.