Lois held her head a little higher, but did not speak. He watched her
twist her fingers nervously together; she had forgotten to take off the
little ring of braided grass.

"I am so sorry, Giff," she said, to break the silence,--"oh, so sorry.
I--I can't forgive myself."

"There is nothing to forgive," he answered gently; "and you must not
distress yourself by thinking that I am unhappy. I am better, Lois, yes,
and happier, because I love you. It shall be an inspiration to me all my
life, even if you should forget all about me. But I want you to make me
one promise, will you?"

She hesitated. "If I can, Giff;" and then, with sudden trustfulness, she
added, "Yes, I will. What is it?"

She had risen, and was standing on the step above him. He looked at her
nervous little hands a moment, but did not touch them, and then he said,
"If the time ever comes when you can love me, tell me so. I ask you this,
Lois, because I cannot bear to distress you again by speaking words of
love you do not want to hear, and yet I can't help hoping; and I shall
always love you, but it shall be in silence. So if the day ever does come
when you can love me, promise to tell me."

"Oh, yes," she said, glad to grant something. "But, Gifford, dear, it
will never come; I must say that now."

"But you promise?"

"Yes," she answered, soberly. "I promise."