"I declare to goodness, Silas Steiner, you 're a worse old tyrant than I ever took you for! You leave off pesterin' that boy and let him come in and git some dry clothes and something good to eat!"
The Doctor walked slowly over and put his kindly old hand on Lonely's sandy, bedraggled, and very unhappy head.
"Lonely, I 'm proud of you!" was all he said. But it was enough. He looked down into the boy's rebellious and unfathomable eyes, still slightly unsteady from the effects of Miss Arabella's too potent cherry brandy. Then he looked out at the quiet river, and at the huddled logs and the spot over which had hovered so closely the wing of tragedy. "You 're not cut out for a hero, my boy, but you almost made one!" he repeated, solemnly.
Lonely grew even more uncomfortable. This being torn between the opposing forces of kindness and wrath was too much for him. He wished he could get away, and make tracks for the cave or the swimming-hole. Even the approach of Miss Arabella, with a glass of cider and a large slice of fruit-cake, did not alleviate his inward unrest.
