une I would gladly have
given it all to him: I felt capable of giving him a life of servitude,
but I loved him--big, manly, lovable, wholesome Harold--from the crown of
his head to the sole of his foot he was good in my sight, but lacking in
that power over me which would make me desirous of being the mother of
his children.

As for explaining my feelings to him--ha! He would laughingly call them
one of my funny little whims. With his orthodox, practical, plain,
commonsense views of these things, he would not understand me. What was
there to understand? Only that I was queer and different from other
women. But he was waiting for me to speak. I had put my hand to the
plough and could not turn back. I could not use the word wife, but I put
my hand in his, looked at him steadily, and said--

"Harold. I meant what I said last Sunday. If you want me--if I am of any
use to you--I will marry you when I attain my majority."

He was satisfied.

He bade us good-bye early that afternoon, as he intended departing from
Five-Bob when the morrow was young, and had two or three little matters
to attend to previous to his departure.

I accompanied him a little way, he walking and leading his horse. We
parted beneath the old willow-tree.

"Good-bye, Harold. I mean all I have said."

I turned my face upwards; he stooped and kissed me once--only once--one
light, gentle, diffident kiss. He looked at me long and intently without
saying a word, then mounted his horse, raised his hat, and rode away.

I watched him depart along the white dusty road, looking like a long
snake in the glare of the summer sun, until it and he who travelled
thereon disappeared among the messmate- and hickory-trees forming the
horizon.

I stood gazing at the hills in the distance on which the blue dreaming
mists of evening were gathering, until tears stole down my cheeks.

I was not given to weeping. What brought them? I hardly knew. It was not
because Harold was leaving, though I would miss him much. Was it because
I was disappointed in love? I persuaded myself that. I loved Harold as
much as I could ever love anyone, and I could not forsake him now that he
needed me. But, but, but, I did not want to marry, and I wished that
Harold had asked anything of me but that, because--because, I don't know
what, and presently felt ashamed for being such a selfish coward that I
grudged to make a little sacrifice of my own inclinations to help a
brother through