"But, Ruthy, you don't understand. I did it to save Luther. If Deacon Whitlock knew who it was he would tell Luther's father and Luther might get a lickin'."
Ruth shook her head. "Your duty was to tell the truth—or say nothing."
"No, sirree! That isn't true. The Bible says do unto others as you'd like to have other fellers do unto you. And I did just what I would want Luther to do for me."
This line of defense was confusing, and Ruth was familiar with his skill in argument. She knew well enough the pitfalls he could dig for the embarrassment of any adversary. So, regarding him with the sternest look she could bring into a very gentle face, she said:
"It is wrong to tell lies and you know it is. And you are bad—just bad. Why don't you button up your coat in front? The snow is actually blowing down your neck."
And she drew the collar of his overcoat closer about his throat and tried to fasten it. "Why, the button is gone! Joanna ought to see to it. You really ought to have a mother, Drowsy. You aren't half taken care of."
This time Cyrus had nothing to say in his own defense. She laid a hand against his cheek. "Your face is hot. I believe you are sick now!"
Cyrus smiled, and nodded. "I shouldn't wonder if I was."
"Why? How do you feel?"
"Oh, sort of—sort of—funny."