eve
in me, I know--" Her face was cold and expressionless.

"And I wanted to believe in you--so much," she said.

"Why did you want to?" cried Magee. "Why?"

She plodded on through the snow.

"You must believe," he pleaded. "I don't know what all this is about--on
my word of honor. But I want to give you that money, and I will--the
minute we get back to the inn. Will you believe then? Will you?"

"I hate you," said the girl simply.

She should not have said that. As far back as he could remember, such
opposition had stirred Mr. Magee to wild deeds. He opened his mouth and
words flowed forth. What were the words?

"I love you! I love you! Ever since that moment in the station I have
loved you! I love you!"

Faintly he heard himself saying it over and over. By the gods, he was
proposing! Inanely, in words of one syllable, as the butcher's boy might
have told his love to the second kitchen maid.

"I love you," he continued. Idiot!

Often Mr. Magee had thought of the moment when he would tell his love to
a woman. It was a moment of dim lights, music perhaps in the distance,
two souls caught up in the magic of the moonlit night--a pretty graceful
speech from him, a sweet gracious surrender from the girl. And
this--instead.

"I love you." In heaven's name, was he never going to stop saying it? "I
want you to believe."

Bright morning on the mountain, a girl in an angry mood at his side, a
seedy chaperon on his trail, an erring cook ahead. Good lord! He
recalled that a fellow novelist, whose love scenes were regarded as
models by young people suffering the tender passion, had once confessed
that he proposed to his wife on a street-car, and was accepted just as
the conductor handed him his transfers. Mr. Magee had been scornful. He
could never be scornful again. By a tremendous effort he avoided
repeating his childish refrain.

The girl deliberately stopped. There was never less of sweet gracious
surrender in a suffragette hurling a stone through a shop-keeper's
window. She eyed Mr. Magee pityingly, and they stood until Mr. Max
caught up with them.

"So that's the hermit's shack," said Max, indicating the little wooden
hut at which they had arrived. "A funny place for a guy to bury himself.
I should think he'd get to longing for the white lights and the table
d'hotes with red wine."

"A very unromantic speech," reproved the girl. "You should be deeply
thrilled at the thought of penetrating the secrets of the