see without your saying. Only I--wish you'd SAY it."

"No, I don't condemn you," he said slowly. "I know you. YOU
couldn't possibly do anything underhanded. If you'd been where
you'd have had to conceal it directly, face to face, from some
one who had the right to know--you'd never have done it." He
rested his arms on the table and looked straight at her. "I
feel I must tell you what I think. And I feel, too, it wouldn't
be fair and honest if I didn't let you see why you might not want
to take my advice."

She returned his gaze inquiringly.

"I love you," he went on calmly. "I've known it ever since I
missed you so at the Christmas holidays. I love you for what you
are, and for what you're as certain to be as--as a rosebud is
certain to be a full-blown rose. I love you as my father loved
my mother. I shall love you always." His manner was calm,
matter-of-fact; but there was in his musical, magical voice a
certain quality which set her nerves and her blood suddenly to
vibrating. She felt as if she were struggling in a great
sea--the sea of his love for her--struggling to reach the safety
of the shore.

"Oh--I WISH you hadn't told me!" she exclaimed.

"Suppose I hadn't; suppose you had taken my advice? No"--he
shook his head slowly--"I couldn't do that, Pauline--not even to
win you."