"Georgia, look at me," he said, laying one hand lightly on her shoulder.
She stepped back, shook off the hand, and looked defiantly up in his face. It was not exactly a handsome face, yet it was full of power—full of calm, deep, invincible power—with keen, intense, piercing eyes, whose steady gaze few could calmly stand. Child as she was, the hitherto unconquered Georgia felt that she stood in the presence of a strong will, that surmounted and overtopped her own by its very depth, intensity and calmness. She strove to brave out his gaze, but her own eyes wavered and fell.
"Well?" she said, in a subdued tone.
"Georgia, will you do me a favor?"
"Well?" she said, compressing her lips hard, as though determined to do battle to the death.
"My brother is alone, he is in pain, he did not mean to offend you, he is under your roof. Georgia, I want you to stay with him till I come back."
"He laughed at me—he made fun of me. I won't! I hate him!" she said, with a passionate flush.
"He is sorry for that. When people are sorry for their faults, a magnanimous enemy always forgives."
"I don't care. I won't forgive him. I was doing everything I could for him. I would have helped him up hill if I could, and he laughed at me! I won't stay with him!" she exclaimed, tearing the hop branches off and flinging them to the ground in her excitement.
He caught the destructive little hands in his and held them fast.