"You stay where you are, father!" She faced him with spirit. "You have
insulted me worse than you've insulted Harlan. You needn't worry about
my going behind your back to make love to any one. But you shall not
break up the dearest friendship I ever had."

This was the Clare Kavanagh who had bearded even Thelismer Thornton that
day--the imperious young beauty that the country-side knew. Her father
had often tested that spirit before, and had allowed her to dominate,
secretly proud that she was truly his own in violence of temper and in
determination to have her own way. But just now he was lacking that
tolerantly humorous mood which usually gave in to her.

"To the devil with your fiddle-de-dee friendship!" he shouted. "You're
sixteen, you young Jezebel; and you--you're old enough to know better,
Thornton. I know what it's leading to, and it ain't going further. I'll
not stand here and argue with you. But if you come meddling in my family
after what I've said, you'll get hurt, young man."

"That's right--we won't argue the question," Thornton retorted. "There's
nothing to argue. You know where I stand in the matter, little girl.
That's all there is to it, so far as we're concerned. I'm going now. I
think I'm ready for that, talk with my grandfather."

He took leave of her with a frank handclasp. Kavanagh glowered, but did
not comment.

When Harlan whirled his horse he saw the conflagration on the Jo Quacca
hills.