valuer for me in dilapidations. I must go, I and Jamie."
He shook his head. He feared to speak, his anger choked him.
"I cannot remain here myself, and certainly I will not let Jamie be here."
"Is it because of last night's foolery you say that?"
"I am responsible for my brother. He is not very clever; he is easily led astray. There is no one to think for him, to care for him, but myself. I could never let him run the risk of such a thing happening again."
"Confound the boy!" burst forth Coppinger. "Are you going to bring him up as a milk-sop? You are wrong altogether in the way you manage him."
"I can but follow my conscience."
"And is it because of him that you go?"
"Not because of him only."
"But I have spoken to your aunt; she consents."
"But I do not," said Judith.
He stamped again, passionately.
"I am not the man who will bear to be disobeyed and my will crossed. I say—Here you shall stay."
Judith waited a moment, looking at him steadily out of her clear, glittering iridescent eyes, and said slowly, "I am not the girl to be obliged to stay where my common-sense and my heart say Stay not."
He folded his arms, lowered his chin on his breast, and strode up and down the room. Then, suddenly, he stood still opposite her and asked, in a threatening tone:
"Do you not like your room? Does that not please your humor?"
"It has been most kind of you to collect all my little bits of rubbish there. I feel how good you have been, how full of thought for me; but, for all that, I cannot stay."
"Why not?"
"I have said, on one account, because of Jamie."
He bit his lips—"I hate that boy."
"Then most certainly he cannot be here. He must be with those who love him."
"Then stay."
"I cannot—I will not. I have a will as well as you. My dear papa always said that my will was strong."
