“Indeed you wrong me.  It was long ago I proved the value I put upon your advice by acting upon it in the most important decision of my life.”

She had so long tacitly understood what her influence over him at that time had been that she could not now be much affected by the avowal.

“Indeed, if you recklessly mistook the advice of a vain child for wisdom, it is to be hoped that Providence has shaped your ends for you.”

He did not understand her mood; he only thought of protesting his long loyalty to her.  “It is true,” said he, “that Providence has done more for me than I have done for myself; but I have always been glad to attribute my coming here to your beneficent influence.”

Her heart was like flint to him at that moment, and in his clumsiness he struck sparks from it.

“Yet when I remember how you tried to explain to me then that the poor parish in which you were working might be offering the nobler life-work for you, I think that you were wiser than I. In their serious moments people can judge best for themselves, Mr. Trenholme.”

He had noticed that, in the rare times she addressed him by name, she never used his big-sounding title of Principal.  This little habit of hers, differently read before, seemed now like a clue to guide him to the meaning of her last remark, partly wrapped as it was in her politeness.  He was no dullard; once on the track of her thought, he soon came up with her.  In surprise he faced her insinuation squarely.

“You mean to tell me that you think I have not done well.”

Half startled, she could think of no answer but the silence that gives consent.

“Is it for myself or others I have done ill?” he asked.

“The world here speaks loudly of your exertions on its behalf; I have never doubted the truth of its report.”

“Then you consider that I myself am not what you would wish?” There was neither anger nor graciousness in his tone.  His mind, arrested, merely sought to know further, and feeling had not yet arisen.

“You alarm me,” she said coldly.  “I had no thought of bringing these questions upon myself.”

But it was of moment to him to know her mind.

“I spoke inadvisedly,” she added.

“Yet you spoke as you thought?” he asked.

Fast as they were walking, she could not but notice that they were in the pine grove now, close by the river.  Here the gale was loud, reminding her afresh of the loneliness of the place, and, as she felt the force of his question pressing upon her, all her energies rushed in anger to her self-defence.

“Yes, I said what I thought; but I ask your pardon for any truthfulness.  Question me no further.”

His stronger will was also roused.  In bitterness of spirit he told her that he had a right to know her full meaning.  He plied her with questions.  When in steady tramp they came out on the open stretch of road between the pines and the mountain, over the noise of the swollen river he heard what she thought of him.