pale, and
pinched, and wan, but it flushed brightly as Harold came in, and she
went eagerly forward to meet him.

'Hally, you naughty boy!' she began, as she gave him her little, thin
hand. 'Why didn't you come before? You don't know how I have missed you.
You must not forget me now that Jerrie is at home.'

She had led him to a seat, and then herself sank into a large cushioned
easy chair, against which she leaned her head wearily, while she looked
at him with eyes which ought to have told Harold how much he was to her,
and so put him on his guard, and saved the misunderstanding which
followed.

'No, Maude, I couldn't forget you,' he said; and without really knowing
that he was doing it, he put his hand upon the little soft white one
lying on the arm of the chair.

Every nerve in Maude's body thrilled to the touch of that hand upon
which she involuntarily laid her other one, noticing as she did so the
signs of toil upon it, and feeling sorry for him. One would have thought
them lovers, sitting there thus together, but nothing could have been
farther from Harold's mind. He was thinking only of Jerrie, and his
resolve to confide in Maude, and get her opinion with regard to his
chance.

'Now is as good a time as any,' he thought, wondering how he should
begin, and finding it harder than he had imagined it would he.

At last after a few commonplaces, Maude told him again that he must not
neglect her now that Jerrie was at home.

'Neglect you? How can I do that?' he said, 'when I look upon you as one
of my best friends, and in proof of it, I am going to tell you
something, or, rather, ask you something, and I hope you will answer me
truly. Better that I know the worst at first than learn it afterward.'

Maude's face was aflame now with a great and sudden joy, and her soft
eyes drooped beneath Harold's as he went on stammeringly, for he began
to feel the awkwardness of telling one girl that he loved another, even
though that other were her dearest friend.

'I hardly know how to begin,' he said, 'it is such a delicate matter,
and perhaps I'd better say nothing at all.'

'Was he going to stop? Had he changed his mind--and would he not after
all, say the words she had so longed to hear?' Maude asked herself, as
she turned her eyes appealingly to him, while he sat silent and unmoved,
his thoughts very, very far from her to whom he was all in all.

Poor Maude! She was weak and sick, and impulsive and mistaken in the