"Am I to come to Westover, Evelyn?" he asked. "Your father presses, and I
have not known what answer to make him."

"You will give us pleasure by your coming," she said gently and at once.
"My father wishes your advice as to the ordering of his library; and you
know that my pretty stepmother likes you well."

"Will it please you to have me come?" he asked, with his eyes upon her
face.

She met his gaze very quietly. "Why not?" she answered simply. "You will
help me in my flower garden, and sing with me in the evening, as of old."

"Evelyn," he said, "if what I am about to say to you distresses you, lift
your hand, and I will cease to speak. Since a day and an hour in the woods
yonder, I have been thinking much. I wish to wipe that hour from your
memory as I wipe it from mine, and to begin afresh. You are the fairest
woman that I know, and the best. I beg you to accept my reverence, homage,
love; not the boy's love, perhaps; perhaps not the love that some men have
to squander, but _my_ love. A quiet love, a lasting trust, deep pride and
pleasure"--

At her gesture he broke off, sat in silence for a moment, then rising went
to the window, and with slightly contracted brows stood looking out at the
sunshine that was slipping away. Presently he was aware that she stood
beside him.

She was holding out her hand. "It is that of a friend," she said. "No, do
not kiss it, for that is the act of a lover. And you are not my
lover,--oh, not yet, not yet!" A soft, exquisite blush stole over her face