“I’m not interested in politics, Mr. Kavanagh, nor in my grandfather’s quarrels with you.”

“I am, though!  Interested enough to advise you to keep to your own side of that river!”

“I’ll admit that you have the right to advise your daughter about the friends she makes.  But I don’t grant you the privilege of insulting me before her face and eyes by putting wrong constructions on our friendship.”

“Meaning that you’re going to keep up this dilly-dally business whether I allow you to or not?”

It was a cruel question at that moment.  The girl was looking at him with her heart in her eyes.  He had understood her pledge of loyalty given a moment before.  Youth is not philosophic.  She would misunderstand anything except loyalty in return.

“Going to court my daughter, are you, according to the Thornton style of grabbing anything in sight that they want?”

“Say, look here, Mr. Kavanagh,” declared the young man, hotly, “I’m not going to answer any such questions.  But I’m going to tell you something, and I’m going to tell it to you straight and right here where your daughter can hear me.  I’m not the kind that goes around making love to any father’s daughter behind his back.  I’ve never made love to your daughter.  Why, man she’s only a child!  And don’t you give me any more sneers about it.  That’s man to man—­understand?  And I’m not going to let you nor my grandfather or any one else break up the innocent friendship between my little playmate here and myself.  Now I hope you’ll take that in the way I mean it.  If you don’t, it’s your fault.”  He had spoken to answer the appeal in her eyes.

He had backed his horse away so that he could face Kavanagh on the steps of the porch.  The girl leaped down from the rail, her face alight, and ran to him and patted his hand.

“By Saint Mike, do you think you’ll tell me how to run my house?” demanded Kavanagh.  He came down the steps.  “I’ll build a coffin for you and a cage for her before that!”

“You stay where you are, father!” She faced him with spirit.  “You have insulted me worse than you’ve insulted Harlan.  You needn’t worry about my going behind your back to make love to any one.  But you shall not break up the dearest friendship I ever had.”

This was the Clare Kavanagh who had bearded even Thelismer Thornton that day—­the imperious young beauty that the country-side knew.  Her father had often tested that spirit before, and had allowed her to dominate, secretly proud that she was truly his own in violence of temper and in determination to have her own way.  But just now he was lacking that tolerantly humorous mood which usually gave in to her.

“To the devil with your fiddle-de-dee friendship!” he shouted.  “You’re sixteen, you young Jezebel; and you—­you’re old enough to know better, Thornton.  I know what it’s leading to, and it ain’t going further.  I’ll not stand here and argue with you.  But if you come meddling in my family after what I’ve said, you’ll get hurt, young man.”