“It looks homelike, somehow, even without any houses in it,” observed Hugh after a long survey of the quiet landscape. “Oh, Oscar, how like home it looked the day that I was lost and came over that hill at last!”
He hesitated a moment, for very little had been said of his adventure in the wood. He had not even let himself think of it often and, half defiant, half ashamed, had avoided the subject, but now let his spoken remorse come with a rush.
“I am so sorry that I did not do just as you told me. You looked for me for hours, I know, and I have never owned that it was all my fault. And I lost your rifle, too; I feel so dreadfully about that. I thought that I could save time and that you were too careful.”
He sat thinking for a second, then added in a sudden burst of illumination:
“Perhaps that was why my father wouldn’t let me go to France, because he knew I hadn’t sense enough to obey orders. I understand now what he meant by my not having enough judgment. Oh, Oscar, I am so ashamed!”
