"
"But, William," said Ruth, impulsively, with a brighter color in her
cheek, "just think! How could he know--a simple old hunter, just like a
little child, only as brave as a lion!" There was a quiver in her voice
and a flash in her soft eyes.
"We can but hope that the state will remember what it owes," said the
doctor, moving toward the door.
He felt that he had been tempted to linger too long. Father Orin was
still waiting for him in the desolate cabin where the Cold Plague had
left the three orphans. His conscience smote him for lingering, and yet
he could not leave, even now, without speaking again of the poems, and
saying that he would fetch the book and leave it the next time he rode
by Cedar House.
When he was gone, Ruth looked at William Pressley in silent, troubled
perplexity. She was wondering vaguely why she had felt so
ashamed--almost as if she had done some shameful thing herself--when he
had spoken as he had done before the doctor about Daniel Boone. It must
have been plain to the visitor that she did not think as William
thought.
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