LITMIR.BIZ

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      "Yes, I forgive him." Then, after a long silence, Alfred continued, "Will you go down to the old sycamore?"

      Down the winding path they went. Coming to a steep place in the rocky bank Alfred jumped down and then turned to help Betty. But she avoided his gaze, pretended to not see his outstretched hands, and leaped lightly down beside him. He looked at her with perplexity and anxiety in his eyes. Before he could speak she ran on ahead of him and climbed down the bank to the pool. He followed slowly, thoughtfully. The supreme moment had come. He knew it, and somehow he did not feel the confidence the Colonel had inspired in him. It had been easy for him to think of subduing this imperious young lady; but when the time came to assert his will he found he could not remember what he had intended to say, and his feelings were divided between his love for her and the horrible fear that he should lose her.

      When he reached the sycamore tree he found her sitting behind it with a cluster of yellow daisies in her lap. Alfred gazed at her, conscious that all his hopes of happiness were dependent on the next few words that would issue from her smiling lips. The little brown hands, which were now rather nervously arranging the flowers, held more than his life.

      "Are they not sweet?" asked Betty, giving him a fleeting glance. "We call them 'black-eyed Susans.' Could anything be lovelier than that soft, dark brown?"

      "Yes," answered Alfred, looking into her eyes.

      "But—but you are not looking at my daisies at all," said Betty, lowering her eyes.

      "No, I am not," said Alfred. Then suddenly: "A year ago this very day we were here."

      "Here? Oh, yes, I believe I do remember. It was the day we came in my canoe and had such fine fishing."

      "Is that all you remember?"

      "I can recollect nothing in particular. It was so long ago."

      "I suppose you will say you had no idea why I wanted you to come to this spot in particular."

      "I supposed you simply wanted to take a walk, and it is very pleasant here."

      "Then Col. Zane did not tell you?" demanded Alfred. Receiving no reply he went on.

      "Did you read my letter?"

      "What letter?"

      "The letter old Sam should have given you last fall. Did you read it?"

      "Yes," answered Betty, faintly.

      "Did your brother tell you I wanted to see you this morning?"

      "Yes, he told me, and it made me very angry," said Betty, raising her head. There was a bright red spot in each cheek. "You—you seemed to think you—that I—well—I did not like it."

      "I think I understand; but you are entirely wrong. I have never thought you cared for me. My wildest dreams never left me any confidence. Col. Zane and Wetzel both had some deluded notion that you cared—"

      "But they had no right to say that or to think it," said Betty, passionately. She sprang to her feet, scattering the daisies over the grass. "For them to presume that I cared for you is absurd. I never gave them any reason to think so, for—for I—I don't."

      "Very well, then, there is nothing more to be said," answered Alfred, in a voice that was calm and slightly cold. "I'm sorry if you have been annoyed. I have been mad, of course, but I promise you that you need fear no further annoyance from me. Come, I think we should return to the house."

      And he turned and walked slowly up the path. He had taken perhaps a dozen steps when she called him.

      "Mr. Clarke, come back."

      Alfred retraced his steps and stood before her again. Then he saw a different Betty. The haughty poise had disappeared. Her head was bowed. Her little hands were tightly pressed over a throbbing bosom.

      "Well," said Alfred, after a moment.

      "Why—why are you in such a hurry to go?"

      "I have learned what I wanted to know. And after that I do not imagine I would be very agreeable. I am going back. Are you coming?"

      "I did not mean quite what I said," whispered Betty.

      "Then what did you mean?" asked Alfred, in a stern voice.

      "I don't know. Please don't speak so."

      "Betty, forgive my harshness. Can you expect a man to feel as I do and remain calm? You know I love you. You must not trifle any longer. You must not fight any longer."

      "But I can't help fighting."

      "Look at me," said Alfred, taking her hands. "Let me see your eyes. I believe you care a little for me, or else you wouldn't have called me back. I love you. Can you understand that?"

      "Yes, I can; and I think you should love me a great deal to make up for what you made me suffer."

      "Betty, look at me."

      Slowly she raised her head and lifted the downcast eyes. Those telltale traitors no longer hid her secret. With a glad cry Alfred caught her in his arms. She tried to hide her face, but he got his hand under her chin and held it firmly so that the sweet crimson lips were very near his own. Then he slowly bent his head.

      Betty saw his intention, closed her eyes and whispered.

      "Alfred, please don't—it's not fair—I beg of you—Oh!"

      That kiss was Betty's undoing. She uttered a strange little cry. Then her dark head found a hiding place over his heart, and her slender form, which a moment before had resisted so fiercely, sank yielding into his embrace.

      "Betty, do you dare tell me now that you do not care for me?" Alfred whispered into the dusky hair which rippled over his breast.

      Betty was brave even in her surrender. Her hands moved slowly upward along his arms, slipped over his shoulders, and clasped round his neck. Then she lifted a flushed and tearstained face with tremulous lips and wonderful shining eyes.

      "Alfred, I do love you—with my whole heart I love you. I never knew until now."

      The hours flew apace. The prolonged ringing of the dinner bell brought the lovers back to earth, and to the realization that the world held others than themselves. Slowly they climbed the familiar path, but this time as never before. They walked hand in hand. From the blur they looked back. They wanted to make sure they were not dreaming. The water rushed over the fall more musically than ever before; the white patches of foam floated round and round the shady pool; the leaves of the sycamore rustled cheerily in the breeze. On a dead branch a wood-pecker hammered industriously.

      "Before we get out of sight of that dear old tree I want to make a confession," said Betty, as she stood before Alfred. She was pulling at the fringe on his hunting-coat.

      "You need not make confessions to me."

      "But this was dreadful; it preys on my conscience."

      "Very well, I will be your judge. Your punishment shall be slight."

      "One day when you were lying unconscious from your wound, Bessie sent me to watch you. I nursed you for hours; and—and—do not think badly of me—I—I kissed you."

      "My darling," cried the enraptured young man.

      When they at last reached the house they found Col. Zane on the doorstep.

      "Where on earth have you been?" he said. "Wetzel was here. He said he would not wait to see you. There he goes up the hill. He is behind that laurel."

      They looked and presently saw the tall figure of the hunter emerge from the bushes. He stopped and leaned on his rifle. For a minute he remained motionless. Then he waved his hand and plunged into the thicket. Betty sighed and Alfred said:

      "Poor Wetzel! ever restless, ever roaming."

      "Hello, there!" exclaimed a gay voice. The lovers turned to see the smiling face of Isaac, and over his shoulder Myeerah's happy face beaming on them. "Alfred, you are a lucky dog. You can thank Myeerah and

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