oices. "Better
she than you, dear cousin," he repeated, gently. "To be refused anything
by you"----

"They do things very well here," interrupted Hermione, pretending not to
hear. "They have such magnificent rooms, and the floor is so good."

"Hermione, why do you"----

"Because," said Hermione quickly, before he could finish his sentence,
"because you say too much, cousin Alexander. I interrupt you because you
go too far, and because the only possible way of checking you is to cut
you short."

"And why must you check me? Am I rude or rough with you? Do I say
anything that you should not hear? You know that I love you; why may I
not tell you so? I know. You will say that Paul has spoken before me.
But do you love Paul? Hermione, can you own to yourself that you love
him,--not as a brother, but as the man you would choose to marry? He
does not love you as I love you."

"Hush!" exclaimed the young girl. "You must not. I will go away and
leave you."

"I will follow you."

"Why will you torment me so?" Perhaps her tone of voice did not express
all the annoyance she meant to show, for Alexander did not desist. He
only changed his manner, growing suddenly as soft and yielding as a
girl.

"I did not mean to annoy you," he said. "You know that I never mean to.
You must forgive me, you must be kind to me, Hermione. You have the
stronger position, and you should be merciful. How can I help saying
something of what I feel?"

"You should not feel it, to begin with," answered his cousin.

"Will you teach me how I may not love you?" His voice dropped almost to
a whisper, as he bent down to her and asked the question. But Hermione
was silent for a moment, not having any very satisfactory plan to
propose. Half reluctant, she sat down by him upon a sofa in the corner
of an almost empty room. There were tall plants in the windows, and the
light was softened by rose-colored shades.

"It must be a hard lesson to learn," said Alexander, speaking again.
"But if you will teach me, I will try and learn it; for I will do
anything you ask me. You say I must not love you, but I love you
already. When I am with you I am carried away, like a boat spinning down
the Neva in the springtime. Can the river stop itself in order that what
lives in it may not move any more? Can it say to the skiff, 'Go no
further,' when the skiff is already far from the shore, at the mercy of
the water?"

"The boatman must pull hard at his oars," laughed H