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 friendship, 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!"