to say.

And then he realized that a worse thing had befallen. He had no voice.
It had gone. He knew that, try he never so hard to speak, he would not
be able to utter a word. A nightmare feeling of unreality came upon
him. Had he ever spoken? Had he ever done anything but sit dumbly on
that rock, looking at those sea gulls out in the water?

He shot another swift glance at Betty, and a thrill went through him.
There were tears in her eyes.

The next moment--the action was almost automatic--his left hand was
clasping her right, and he was moving along the rock to her side.

She snatched her hand away.

His brain, ransacked for the third time, yielded a single word.

"Betty!"

She got up quickly.

In the confused state of his mind, John found it necessary if he were
to speak at all, to say the essential thing in the shortest possible
way. Polished periods are not for the man who is feeling deeply.

He blurted out, huskily, "I love you!" and finding that this was all
that he could say, was silent.

Even to himself the words, as he spoke them, sounded bald and