know I love you,--you know it! Why haven't you let me tell you so? Oh,
Lois, how lovely you are to-night,--how happy we shall be!"

He kissed one of her hands with a sudden savage passion that frightened
her. "Oh--don't," she said, shrinking back, and pulling her hands away
from him.

He looked at her blankly a moment, but when he spoke again it was gently.
"Did I frighten you? I didn't mean to; but you know I love you. That
hasn't startled you? Tell me you care for me, Lois."

"But--but"--said Lois, sorry and ashamed, "I--don't!"

The eager boyish face, so near her own, flushed with sudden anger. "You
don't? You must! Why--why, I love you. It cannot be that you really
don't--tell me?"

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.