-almost a lifetime in the waste of years. Does it seem long to
you, Miss Gray--oh, I remember, I am to call you Rosalie."

"It seems that I have known you always instead of for four weeks," she
said gently. "They have been happy weeks, haven't they? My--our only
fear is that you haven't been comfortable in our poor little home. It's
not what you are accustomed--"

"Home is what the home folks make it," he said, striving to quote a
vague old saying. He was dimly conscious of a subdued smile on her part
and he felt the fool. "At any rate, I was more than comfortable. I was
happy--never so happy. All my life shall be built about this single
month--my past ends with it, my future begins. You, Rosalie," he went on
swiftly, his eyes gleaming with the love that would not be denied, "are
the spirit of life as I shall know it from this day forth. It is you who
have made Tinkletown a kingdom, one of its homes a palace. Don't turn
your face away, Rosalie."

But she turned her face toward him and her dark eyes did not flinch as
they met his, out there in the bleak old wood.

"Don't, please don't, Wicker," she said softly, firmly. Her hand touched
his arm for an instant. "You will understand, won't you? Please don't!"
There was a world of meaning in it.

His heart turned cold as ice, the blood left his face. He understood.
She did not love him.

"Yes," he said, his voice dead and hoarse, "I think I understand,
Rosalie. I have taken too much for granted, fool that I am. Bah! The
egotism of a fool!"

"You must not speak like that," she said, her face contracted by pain
and pity. "You are the most wonderful man I've ever known--the best and
the truest. But--" and she paused, with a wan, drear smile on her lips.

"I understand," he interrupted. "Don't say it. I want to think that some
day you will feel like saying something else, and I want to hope,
Rosalie, that it won't always be like this. Let us talk about something
else." But neither cared to speak for what seemed an hour. They were in
sight of home before the stony silence was broken. "I may come over from
Bonner Place to see you?" he asked at last. He was to cross the river
the next day for a stay of a week or two at his uncle's place.

"Yes--often, Wicker. I shall want to see you every day. Yes, every day;
I'm sure of it," she said wistfully, a hungry look in her eyes that he
did not see, for he was staring straight ahead. Had he seen that look or
caught the true tone