The blow brought back George’s reason. He stood amazed and ashamed at his own violence and folly. William rose without a word, and looked him squarely in the eye; he was conscious that his words, though foolish, did not deserve a blow. He was no match physically for George, but he was not in the least afraid of him. Some one else, however, besides the two boys had witnessed the scene. Laurence Washington, quietly opening wide a door that had been ajar, walked into the hall, followed by his wife, and said, calmly: “George, did I not see you strike a most unmanly blow just now--a blow upon a boy smaller than yourself, a guest in this house, and at a time when such things are particularly shocking?” George, his face as pale as death and unable to raise his eyes from the floor, replied, in a low voice, “Yes, brother, and I think I was crazy for a moment. I ask William’s pardon, and yours, and my sister’s--” Laurence continued to look at him with stern and, as George felt, just displeasure; but Mrs. Washington came forward, and, laying her hand on his shoulder, said, sweetly: “You were very wrong, George; but I heard it all, and I do not believe that anything could make you wish our child to die. Your giving up your horse to the doctor shows how much you love her, and I, for one, forgive you for what you have done.” “Thank you, sister,” answered George; but he could not raise his eyes. He had never in all his life felt so ashamed of himself. In a minute or two he recovered himself, and held out his hand to William. “I was wrong too, George,” said William; “I ought not to have said what I did, and I am willing to be friends again.” The two boys shook hands, and without one word each knew that he had a friend forever in the other one. And presently Dr. Craik came down-stairs, saying cheerfully to Mrs. Washington: “Madam, your little one is asleep, and I think the worst is past.” For some days the child continued ill, and George’s anxiety about her, his wish to do something for her in spite of his boyish incapacity to do so, showed how fond he was of her. She began to mend, however, and George was delighted to find that she was never better satisfied than when carried about in his strong young arms. William Fairfax, who was far from being a foolish fellow, in spite of his silly speech, grew to be heartily ashamed of the suspicion that George would be glad to profit by the little girl’s death when he saw how patiently George would amuse her hour after hour, and how willingly he would give up his beloved hunting and shooting to stay with her.