The young man and the girl looked at each other. It was a pitiful, appealing glance that they exchanged. Shame surged in both of them. In that gaze, also, was mutual apology for the ruthless ones who had dealt such insult that day in their hearing; there was hopelessness that any words from them to each other, just then, could help the situation. And in that gaze, too, there was proud denial, from one to the other, that anything except friendship, the true, honest comradeship of youth, had drawn them together. Kavanagh eyed them with grim relish. The thought that he was harrying one of the Thorntons overbore any consideration he felt for his daughter, even if he stopped to think that her affection was anything except the silliness of childhood. "Politics seems to be a good side-line for the Thornton family," Kavanagh remarked, maliciously. "If you can start where your grandfather is leaving off, you ought to be something big over in your country before you die!" "I'm not interested in politics, Mr. Kavanagh, nor in my grandfather's quarrels with you." "I am, though! Interested enough to advise you to keep to your own side of that river!" "I'll admit that you have the right to advise your daughter about the friends she makes. But I don't grant you the privilege of insulting me before her face and eyes by putting wrong constructions on our friendship." "Meaning that you're going to keep up this dilly-dally business whether I allow you to or not?" It was a cruel question at that moment. The girl was looking at him with her heart in her eyes. He had understood her pledge of loyalty given a moment before. Youth is not philosophic. She would misunderstand anything except loyalty in return. "Going to court my daughter, are you, according to the Thornton style of grabbing anything in sight that they want?" "Say, look here, Mr. Kavanagh," declared the young man, hotly, "I'm not going to answer any such questions. But I'm going to tell you something, and I'm going to tell it to you straight and right here where your daughter can hear me. I'm not the kind that goes around making love to any father's daughter behind his back. I've never made love to your daughter. Why, man she's only a child! And don't you give me any more sneers about it. That's man to man--understand? And I'm not going to let you nor my grandfather or any one else break up the innocent friendship between my little playmate here and myself. Now I hope you'll take that in the way I mean it. If you don't, it's your fault." He had spoken to answer the appeal in her eyes. He had backed his horse away so that he could face Kavanagh on the steps of the porch. The girl leaped down from the rail, her face alight, and ran to him and patted his hand. "By Saint Mike, do you think you'll tell me how to run my house?" demanded Kavanagh. He came down the steps. "I'll build a coffin for you and a cage for her before that!"