Hope Wayne did not agree with Abel Newt that life was so much better in
books. There was nothing better in any book she had ever read than the
little conversation with the handsome youth which she had had that
morning upon the lawn. When she went into the house she found no one
until she knocked at Mrs. Simcoe's door.

"Aunty, did you call me?"

"Yes, Hope."

"I was on the lawn, Aunty."

"I know it, Hope."

The young lady did not ask her why she had not sought her there, but she
asked, "What do you want, Aunty?"

The older woman looked quietly out of the window. Neither spoke for a
long time.

"I saw you talking with Abel Newt on the lawn. Why did he strike that
boy?" asked Mrs. Simcoe at length, still gazing at the distant hills.

"He had to defend himself," said Hope, rapidly.

"Couldn't a young man protect himself against a boy without stunning him?
He might easily have killed him," said Mrs. Simcoe, in the same dry tone.

"It was very unfortunate, and Mr. Newt says so; but I don't think he is
to bear every thing."