"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 friendship. "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 shining 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_!