Part 14 (1/2)

But there was no doubt in Lois's mind now. ”Indeed, Mr. Forsythe,” she said, ”indeed, I am so sorry, but I don't--I can't!”

A sullen look clouded his handsome face. ”I cannot believe it,” he said, at length. ”You have known that I loved you all summer; you cannot be so cruel as to trifle with me now. You will not treat me so. Oh, I love you!” There was almost a wail in his voice, and he threw himself down in a chair and covered, his face with his hands.

Lois did not speak. Her lip curled a little, but it was partly with contempt for herself and her past uncertainty. ”I am so sorry, so grieved,” she began. But he scarcely heard her, or at least he did not grasp the significance of her words.

He began to plead and protest. ”We will be so happy if you will only care for me. Just think how different your life will be; you shall have everything in this world you want, Lois.”

She could not check his torrent of words, and when at last he stopped he had almost convinced himself that she loved him.

But she shook her head. ”I cannot tell you how distressed I am, but I do not love you.”

He was silent, as though trying to understand.

”Won't you try and forget it? Won't you forgive me, and let us be friends?” she said.

”You really mean it? You really mean to make me wretched? Forget it? I wish to Heaven I could!”

Lois did not speak. There seemed to be nothing to say.

”You have let me think you cared,” he went on, ”and I have built on it; I have staked all my happiness on it; I am a ruined man if you don't love me. And you coolly tell me you do not care for me! Can't you try to? I'll make you so happy, if you will only make me happy, Lois.”

”Please--please,” she protested, ”do not say anything more; it never can be,--indeed, it cannot!”

d.i.c.k's voice had been tender a moment before, but it was hard now.

”Well,” he said, ”you have amused yourself all summer, I suppose. You made me think you loved me, and everybody else thought so, too.”

The hint of blame kept Lois from feeling the sting of conscience. She flung her head back, and looked at him with a flash of indignation in her eyes. ”Do you think it's manly to blame me? You had better blame yourself that you couldn't win my love!”

”Do you expect a man to choose his words when you give him his death-blow?” he said; and then, ”Oh, Miss Lois, if I wait, can't you learn to care for me? I'll wait,--a year, if you say there's any hope.

Or do you love anybody else? Is that the reason?”

”That has nothing to do with it,” Lois cried, hotly, ”but I don't.”

”Then,” said d.i.c.k eagerly, ”you must love me, only you don't recognize it, not having been in love before. Of course it's different with a girl who doesn't know what love is. Oh, say you do!”

Lois, with quick compunction for her anger, was gentle enough now. ”I cannot say so. I wish you would forget me, and forgive me if you can. I'm sorry to have grieved you,--truly I am.”

There was silence for a few minutes, only broken by a yawn from Max and the snapping of the fire.

”I tell you I cannot forget,” the young man said, at last. ”You have ruined my life for me. Do you think I'll be apt to forget the woman that's done that? I'll love you always, but life is practically over for me. Remember that, the next time you amuse yourself, Miss Howe!” Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and left her.

Lois drew a long breath as she heard him slam the front door behind him, and then she sat down on the rug again. She was too angry to cry, though her hands shook with nervousness. But under all her excitement was the sting of mortification and remorse.

Max, with that strange understanding which animals sometimes show, suddenly turned and licked her face, and then looked at her, all his love speaking in his soft brown eyes.

”Oh, Max, dear,” Lois cried, flinging her arms around him, and resting her cheek on his s.h.i.+ning head, ”what a comfort you are! How much nicer dogs are than men!”