“But uncle Robert never meant anything like this,” she said.  “He is kind and tender-hearted.  I will call him.  He would not—­”

The boy had turned proudly and silently, meaning to get back in the saddle, but she would not loose her hold on his arm.  And then came the first furious blast of the tempest, and the greatest trees—­the mightiest giants of the ancient forest—­bent and crouched before it, bracing themselves for the fierce conflict with the elements in which they must gain or lose centuries of life.  The rain now began to fall heavily, and William abruptly told the boy to come in the house till the storm was over.  In yielding thus far, he was not influenced by Ruth’s threat to appeal to his uncle.  He had scarcely heard what she said, and he was never in awe of the judge’s opinion, and never looked for opposition from any source, because he could not anticipate an opinion different from his own.  He merely dropped the argument for the moment because he saw the urgent necessity of bringing an undignified scene to a speedy close, and could not see any other or better way of doing it.

When they had gone indoors and had gathered around the fire, so that their damp clothes might dry, he was by far the most composed of the three.  The boy was deeply agitated and suffering as only the supersensitive can suffer from harshness, whether merited or not.  Ruth was still quivering with excitement and distress, and very soon her tender conscience also was aching.  She could not recall very distinctly all that she had said, but she knew how bitter her words must have been, and was already wondering how she ever could have uttered them.  How they came in her mind and heart she could not comprehend.  She had always thought William a good man, and worthy of all respect, and she now felt that there had been much truth in what he had said.  David was a dreamer, poor boy, and it would be well if he could be taught to remember, to be practical and useful like other people.  She still could not think it right for him to have been forced to go back through the storm to correct an error; but she now thought that William had not really intended to send him.  It seemed suddenly plain that William’s sole intention must have been to impress him with the necessity of doing what he was told to do.  She had scolded the boy herself about that very thing many a time.  The fault was hers, she had been too hasty, too excitable, too impetuous.  Ah, yes, that was always her fault!  She looked at William with everything that she thought and felt clearly to be seen on her transparent face.  But a ray of comfort shone through the cloud which darkened her spirits.  Surely this and everything else would be well when she had told him how sorry she was, and how plainly she saw her mistake.  They had been such good friends as far back as she could remember; the bond between them had been such a close and strong one that it certainly could not be broken or even strained by a few hasty, passionate words, repented at once.  Her lovely eyes were already seeking his face and silently appealing to this old and faithful affection.