"Why did he not let you come to my house to salute your aunt?"
Judith hesitated. He again looked up at her searchingly.
"If you really must know the truth. Captain Coppinger, papa thought your house was hardly one to which to send two children—it was said to harbor such wild folk."
"And he did not know how fiercely and successfully you could defend yourself against wild folk," said Coppinger, with a harsh laugh. "It is we wild men that must fear you, for you dash us about and bruise and break us when displeased with our ways. We are not so bad at the Glaze as we are painted, not by a half—here is my hand on it."
Judith was still seated on the music-stool, her hands resting in her lap. Coppinger came toward her, walking stiffly, and extending his palm.
She looked down in her lap. What did this fierce, strange man, mean?
"Will you give me your hand?" he asked. "Is there peace between us?"
She was doubtful what to say. He remained, awaiting her answer.
"I really do not know what reply to make," she said, after awhile. "Of course, so far as I am concerned, it is peace. I have myself no quarrel with you, and you are good enough to say that you forgive me."
"Then why not peace?"
Again she let him wait before answering. She was uneasy and unhappy. She wanted neither his goodwill nor his hostility.
"In all that affects me, I bear you no ill-will," she said, in a low, tremulous voice; "but in that you were a grief to my dear, dear father, discouraging his heart, I cannot be forgetful, and so full of charity as to blot it out as though it had not been."
"Then let it be a patched peace—a peace with evasions and reservations. Better that than none. Give me your hand."
"On that understanding," said Judith, and laid her hand in his. His iron fingers closed round it, and he drew her up from the stool on which she sat, drew her forward near the window, and thrust her in front of him.
