Every morning a message was brought to May, "Will you apologize?" And to this message the unvarying reply was returned, "No, sir."
This exchange of semi-hostilities was the only intercourse between May and her uncle. The General began to feel some respect for a nature that could hold out against the enemy and refuse to yield even under continuous siege. "He's a naughty boy, but I believe he has the making of a soldier," thought the old man.
One day the uncle and the mock nephew encountered one another on the porch.
"Well, boy," said the uncle sitting down as if to make ready for a confession.
"Oh, Uncle Harold, if you would only believe me!" cried May, overcome by this unwonted gentleness.
"I will when you tell the truth; take back your words to the doctor and apologize to Philip," the General replied.
"Can't you see that I'm telling the truth and that I can't apologize to Philip?" May exclaimed, earnestly, clasping her hands on the General's arm and looking into his eyes.
The General rose, and put aside the clinging hands. He wanted to take the childish figure in his arms and forgive all that had passed, but the determination to conquer the stubborn will opposed to his own withheld him.
"I shall say no more about the matter. When you have anything to tell me you can seek me," he said, and then he walked away to hide his feelings.
"Philip did it!" May's lips formed these words, but no sound came from them. "Tell him," an inward voice whispered. May looked after the retreating figure; its outline was so stern that her courage faded and she turned hopelessly away in the other direction. "What is the use; he wouldn't believe me," she said to herself.