"Why, no—at least, not exactly that—" she stammered. "I thought you knew, Cary, that I don't love you one bit! I've told you so over and over again; and I've sent you away over and over again for bothering me about it when I had told you not to! But I do like you, ever so much. And I shall think of you, away fighting bravely—as I know you will—for our sacred cause. And so, I gave you the ribbon—because—because—you said it would make you a little happier if you had something of the sort to take with you! Oh, please do try to understand, Cary!" And she twisted her hands in distress.
Cary Patten was too much of a boy not to show all the bitterness of his overthrow. He had been lifted up to the crest of triumph, and hurled down disastrously. He had believed, when Barbara gave him her token, that the victory, which his confident spirit had never doubted would be his at last, had come at this high moment of his career. He was not only desperately hurt, but sorely humbled. His mind worked rapidly, seeking explanations. One passion after another chased itself over his transparent face; till at length Barbara saw his features grow harder and more mature than she had ever before seen them, and the poor little ribbon was crumpled ruthlessly in his grip.
"I understand!" he exclaimed, fiercely, a strident tone in his voice which was quite new to her. "It is that runaway Tory hound, that traitor Gault, that—" and here he choked. "If he has not already run away I shall settle the scoundrel to-night. I shall—"
"Silence, sir!" cut in Barbara. The tone, the look in her face, brought the mad boy to his senses like a drenching in cold water. He could have bitten off his tongue for the outburst.
"Mr. Gault was my friend, and his name is entitled to respect in my presence!" she went on. "And he is a gentleman! Of you I should have said the same thing—a few moments ago! Give me back my ribbon—what you have left of it, Mr. Patten!"
"Oh, no! no! Forgive me!" Cary was crying, in abject penitence, even while she spoke, at the same time thrusting the ribbon into his breast, as if he feared that Barbara would take it by force. "I was crazy mad, dear heart. I didn't know what I was saying. I take it all back. It was not so. I know he is a gentleman and a brave man, if he is a traitor Tory. Surely you will forgive me, when you have broken my heart—Barbara."
While he was speaking Barbara had moved away to the other side of the table; but now, so dejected did he look, so humble, so repentant, and withal so wholesomely boyish, that her heart softened once more, and she came back.
"Yes, Cary, I will overlook it, and make allowance, because I see you are sorry. And I am still truly your friend, and will think about you when you are away. And I am sorry I did anything to make you misunderstand me, so you must give me back the poor little ribbon that did the mischief."
"No, you surely can't be so cruel as that!" he pleaded. "I feel it would be unlucky to give it back. Don't kill me, dear. Let me keep the dear ribbon!"
Barbara hesitated. She wanted the ribbon back. The giving had been spoiled for her. Her impulse was to insist. But events of late had softened her, had given her more comprehension of feelings other than her own,—had made her, indeed, a little less self-centred. She crushed down her vexation.