hough, I'd say that of anybody. And he irritates me,
he is so different from other people. I don't think I do--adore him!"

Gifford did not speak; he took another strand of grass, and began to
weave it round and round his little ring, to make it smaller.

"Perhaps I ought not to say that," she added; "of course I wouldn't to
any one but you."

"You ought not to say it to me, Lois," he said.

"Why? Isn't it true?" she said. "I don't think it is wrong to say he's
different; it's certainly true!" Gifford was silent. "Do you?" she
demanded.

"Yes," Gifford answered quietly; "and somehow it doesn't seem fair, don't
you know, to say anything about them, they are so happy; it seems as
though we ought not even to speak of them."

Lois was divided between indignation at being found fault with and
admiration for the sentiment. "Well," she said, rather meekly for her, "I
won't say anything more; no doubt I'll like him when I know him better."

"See if that fits your finger, Lois," her companion said, sitting up, and
handing her the little grass ring. She took it, smiling, and tried it on.
Gifford watched her with an intentness which made him frown; her bending
head was like a shadowy silhouette against the pale sky, and the little
curls caught the light in soft mist around her forehead.

"But I'm glad for my own part, then," she went on, "to think of you with
Helen. You must tell me everything about her and about her life, when
you write; she won't do it herself."

"I will," he answered, "if you let me write to you."

Lois opened her eyes with surprise; here was this annoying formality
again, which Gifford's fault-finding seemed to have banished. "Let you
write?" she said impatiently. "Why, you know I depended on your writing,
Giff, and you must tell me everything you can think of. What's the good
of having a friend in Lockhaven, if you don't?"

She had clasped her hands lightly on her knees, and was leaning forward a
little, looking at him; for he had turned away from her, and was pulling
at a bunch of violets. "I tell you what it is, Lois," he said; "I cannot
go away, and write to you, and not--and not tell you. I suppose I'm a
fool to tell you, but I can't help it."

"Tell me what?" Lois asked, bewildered.

"Oh," Gifford burst out, rising, and standing beside her, his big figure
looming up in the darkness, "it's this talk of friendship, Lois, that I
cannot stand. You see, I love you."

There was silence for one