Part 2 (1/2)

”You seem to have a very high opinion of John Ward,” Lois said, a thread of anger in her voice.

”I have,” said Gifford; ”but that isn't what I mean. It's love, not John Ward, which means content. But you don't have a very high opinion of him?”

”Oh, yes, I have,” Lois said quickly; ”only he isn't good enough for Helen. I suppose, though, I'd say that of anybody. And he irritates me, he is so different from other people. I don't think I do--adore him!”

Gifford did not speak; he took another strand of gra.s.s, and began to weave it round and round his little ring, to make it smaller.

”Perhaps I ought not to say that,” she added; ”of course I wouldn't to any one but you.”

”You ought not to say it to me, Lois,” he said.

”Why? Isn't it true?” she said. ”I don't think it is wrong to say he's different; it's certainly true!” Gifford was silent. ”Do you?” she demanded.

”Yes,” Gifford answered quietly; ”and somehow it doesn't seem fair, don't you know, to say anything about them, they are so happy; it seems as though we ought not even to speak of them.”

Lois was divided between indignation at being found fault with and admiration for the sentiment. ”Well,” she said, rather meekly for her, ”I won't say anything more; no doubt I'll like him when I know him better.”

”See if that fits your finger, Lois,” her companion said, sitting up, and handing her the little gra.s.s ring. She took it, smiling, and tried it on.

Gifford watched her with an intentness which made him frown; her bending head was like a shadowy silhouette against the pale sky, and the little curls caught the light in soft mist around her forehead.

”But I'm glad for my own part, then,” she went on, ”to think of you with Helen. You must tell me everything about her and about her life, when you write; she won't do it herself.”

”I will,” he answered, ”if you let me write to you.”

Lois opened her eyes with surprise; here was this annoying formality again, which Gifford's fault-finding seemed to have banished. ”Let you write?” she said impatiently. ”Why, you know I depended on your writing, Giff, and you must tell me everything you can think of. What's the good of having a friend in Lockhaven, if you don't?”

She had clasped her hands lightly on her knees, and was leaning forward a little, looking at him; for he had turned away from her, and was pulling at a bunch of violets. ”I tell you what it is, Lois,” he said; ”I cannot go away, and write to you, and not--and not tell you. I suppose I'm a fool to tell you, but I can't help it.”

”Tell me what?” Lois asked, bewildered.

”Oh,” Gifford burst out, rising, and standing beside her, his big figure looming up in the darkness, ”it's this talk of friends.h.i.+p, Lois, that I cannot stand. You see, I love you.”

There was silence for one long moment. It was so still they could hear the bubbling of the spring, like a soft voice, complaining in the darkness. Then Lois said, under her breath, ”Oh, Gifford!”

”Yes, I do,” he went on, desperately. ”I know you've never thought of such a thing; somehow, I could not seem to make you see it,--you wouldn't see it; but I do love you, and--and, Lois--if you could care, just a little? I've loved you so long.”

Lois shrank back against the silver-poplar tree, and put her hands up to her face. In a moment tenderness made the young man forget his anxiety.

”Did I startle you?” he said, sitting down beside her; but he did not take her hand, as he might have done in their old frank friends.h.i.+p. ”I'm so sorry, but I couldn't help telling you. I know you've been unconscious of it, but how could a fellow help loving you, Lois? And I couldn't go away to Lockhaven and not know if there was any chance for me. Can you care, a--little?”

She did not speak until he said again, his voice trembling with a sudden hope, ”Won't you say one word, Lois?”

”Why, Giff,” she said, sitting up very straight, and looking at him, her wet eyes s.h.i.+ning in the darkness, ”you know I care--I've always cared, but not that way--and--and--you don't, Giff, you don't really--it's just a fancy.”

”It is not a fancy,” he answered quietly. ”I knew I loved you that first time I came home from college. But you were too young; it would not have been right. And then before I went abroad, I tried to tell you once; but I thought from the way you spoke you did not care. So I didn't say anything more; but I love you, and I always shall.”

”Oh, Gifford,” Lois cried, with a voice full of distress, ”you _mustn't_!

Why, don't you see? You're just like my brother. Oh, do please let us forget all this, and let's be just as we used to be.”