“I sent him myself on that business,” the Judge reflected uncomfortably. “I am partly responsible for the lynching. It has brought him one great unhappiness already through the death of Steve. If it gets running in this girl's mind, she may—dear me!” the Judge broke off, “what a nuisance!” And he sighed. For as all men know, he also knew that many things should be done in this world in silence, and that talking about them is a mistake.
But when school was out, and the girl gone to her cabin, his mind had set the subject in order thoroughly, and he knocked at her door, ready, as he had put it, to sacrifice his character in the cause of true love.
“Well,” he said, coming straight to the point, “some dark things have happened.” And when she made no answer to this, he continued: “But you must not misunderstand us. We're too fond of you for that.”
“Judge Henry,” said Molly Wood, also coming straight to the point, “have you come to tell me that you think well of lynching?”
He met her. “Of burning Southern negroes in public, no. Of hanging Wyoming cattle thieves in private, yes. You perceive there's a difference, don't you?”
“Not in principle,” said the girl, dry and short.
“Oh—dear—me!” slowly exclaimed the Judge. “I am sorry that you cannot see that, because I think that I can. And I think that you have just as much sense as I have.” The Judge made himself very grave and very good-humored at the same time. The poor girl was strung to a high pitch, and spoke harshly in spite of herself.
“What is the difference in principle?” she demanded.
“Well,” said the Judge, easy and thoughtful, “what do you mean by principle?”
“I didn't think you'd quibble,” flashed Molly. “I'm not a lawyer myself.”