"But why? Surely you will make some little allowance for a naturally quick temper, and you know you did not—that you were—"
"Yes, I remember I was hasty and unkind. But I made amends, or at least, I tried to do so."
"Try to overlook my stupidity. I will not give up until you forgive me. Consider how much you can avoid by being generous."
"Very well, then, I will forgive you," said Betty, who had arrived at the conclusion that this young man was one of determination.
"Thank you. I promise you shall never regret it. And the sprained ankle? It must be well, as I noticed you danced beautifully."
"I am compelled to believe what the girls say—that you are inclined to the language of compliment. My ankle is nearly well, thank you. It hurts a little now and then."
"Speaking of your accident reminds me of the day it happened," said Alfred, watching her closely. He desired to tease her a little, but he was not sure of his ground. "I had been all day in the woods with nothing but my thoughts—mostly unhappy ones—for company. When I met you I pretended to be surprised. As a matter of fact I was not, for I had followed your dog. He took a liking to me and I was extremely pleased, I assure you. Well, I saw your face a moment before you knew I was as near you. When you heard my footsteps you turned with a relieved and joyous cry. When you saw whom it was your glad expression changed, and if I had been a hostile Wyandot you could not have looked more unfriendly. Such a woeful, tear-stained face I never saw."
"Mr. Clarke, please do not speak any more of that," said Betty with dignity. "I desire that you forget it."
"I will forget all except that it was I who had the happiness of finding you and of helping you. I cannot forget that. I am sure we should never have been friends but for that accident."
"There is Isaac. He is looking for me," answered Betty, rising.