that followed, she wondered wildly if she had made him
angry at last. Then he spoke in his usual good-natured drawl, and her
heart gave a great throb of relief.

"I think you're chaffin'," he said.

"I'm not," she assured him feverishly. "I'm not indeed. I always mean
what I say. That is----"

"Of course," said Tots, with kindly reassurance. "I knew that. Why, my
dear child, that's just what made me do it. I took a likin' to you for
that very reason."

She stared at him speechlessly. There was absolutely nothing left to
say. He really cared for her, it seemed. He really cared! And she? With
a gasp of despair she abandoned the unequal strife, and hid her face
from him in an agony of tears. Why, why, why, had this knowledge come to
her so late?

He was by her side in an instant, stroking, soothing, comforting her, as
though she had been a child. When she partially recovered herself her
head was against his shoulder, and he was drying her eyes clumsily but
tenderly with his own handkerchief.

"There! there!" he said. "Don't cry any more. Some one's been troublin'
you. Just let me know who it is, and I'll wring his neck."

She raised herself weakly. The desire to laugh quite left her. She
leaned her head in her hands, and forced down her tears.

"You--don't understand," she said at last.

"Don't I?" said Tots. "Why, I thought we were gettin' on so well."

"I know. I know." She was making a supreme effort. It must be now or
never. "You have been very good to me. But--but--we never have got on
really. It was all a mistake."

"What do you mean?" said Tots.

She fancied his tone had changed a little. It sounded somehow brisker
than usual. He was angry, whispered her panting heart, and if she
angered him--ah, how should she bear it? But the next instant a big,
consoling hand pressed her shoulder, and the misgiving passed.

"Don't tremble like this, little one," he said. "You can't be afraid of
me. No one ever was before. There has been a mistake, you say. What was
it? Can't you bring yourself to tell me?"

There was something in his voice that moved her strangely, kindling that
in her which turned her passionate regret to tragedy. Her head sank a
little lower in her hands. How could she tell him? How could she? Yet he
must know, even if--even if it transformed his love to hatred. The bare
thought hurt her intolerably. He was the only friend she had. And
yet--and yet--he must know. She swallowed a desperate sob,