“Oh, I see,” he interrupted rudely: “you supposed, in other words, that I was an idle chap, addicted to wandering about the woods, a gun on my shoulder, a cur—quite as much of a ne’er-do-well as myself—at my heels. Of course Deacon Whittle and Mrs. Solomon Black have told you all about it. And since you’ve set about reforming Brookville, you thought you’d begin with me. Well, I’m obliged to you; but—”
The girl arose trembling to her feet.
“You are not kind!” she cried. “You are not kind!”
They stood for an instant, gazing into each other’s eyes during one of those flashes of time which sometimes count for years.
“Forgive me,” he muttered huskily. “I’m a brute at best; but I had no business to speak to you as I did.”
“But why did you say—what made you ever think I’d set about reforming—that is what you said—reforming—Brookville? I never thought of such a thing! How could I?”
He hung his head, abashed by the lightning in her mild eyes.
She clasped her small, fair hands and bent toward him.
“And you said you wanted to be—friends. I hoped—”
“I do,” he said gruffly. “I’ve told you I’m ashamed of myself.”