"So you like Ruskin," she said. "I do, too. But I haven't read
this."

"If you--would care--to read it--you may have it," Jasper
contrived to say.

She carried the book away with her. He did not again hide when
she passed, and when she brought the book back they talked a
little about it over the fence. He lent her others, and got some
from her in return; they fell into the habit of discussing them.
Jasper did not find it hard to talk to her now; it seemed as if he
were talking to his dream Alice, and it came strangely natural to
him. He did not talk volubly, but Alice thought what he did say
was worth while. His words lingered in her memory and made music.
She always found his flowers under the pine, and she always wore
some of them, but she did not know if he noticed this or not.

One evening Jasper walked shyly with her from his gate up the pine
hill. After that he always walked that far with her. She would
have missed him much if he had failed to do so; yet it did not
occur to her that she was learning to love him. She would have
laughed with girlish scorn at the idea. She liked him very much;
she thought his nature beautiful in its simplicity and purity; in
spite of his shyness she felt more delightfully at home in his
society than in that of any other person she had ever met. He was
one of those rare souls whose friendship is at once a pleasure and
a benediction, showering light from their own crystal clearness
into all the dark corners in the souls of others, until, for the
time being at least, they reflected his own nobility. But she