issed Elizabeth so much,
but he was glad she had had that nice visit to Boston.

So the days drifted on; Doris unconsciously sweet in her simplicity, yet
so innocent that the lover began to fear while he hoped.

Uncle Winthrop had gone to a meeting of the Historical Society. Miss
Recompense had a neighbor in great trouble that she was trying to
console out in the supper room, where they could talk unreservedly. Cary
was in the study, and the two were sauntering around the fragrant walks
where the grassy beds had recently been cut. There was no moon, and the
whole world seemed soft and still, as if it was listening to the story
Captain Hawthorne had to tell, as if it was in love with itself.

"Oh," interrupted Doris with a sharp, pained cry, "do not, please do
not! I never dreamed--I--shall never go away from Uncle Winthrop. I do
not want any other love. I thought it was--Betty. Oh, forgive me for the
pain and disappointment. I seem even to myself such a little girl----"

"But I can wait years. I wanted you to know. Oh, Doris, as the years go
on can you not learn to love me? I will be patient and live in the
sweet, grand hope that some day----"

"No, no; do not hope. I cannot promise. Oh, you are so noble and
upright, can you not accept this truth from me? For it would only be
pain and disappointment in the end."

No, she did not love him. Her sweet soul was still asleep within her
fair body. He was too really honorable to persist.

"Doris," he said,--what a sweet girl's name it was!--"five years from
this time I shall come back. You will be a woman then, you are still a
child. And if no other lover has won you, I shall ask again."

He pressed her hand to his lips. Then he led her around to the porch,
and bade her a tender good-night. He would not embarrass her by any
longer stay.

She ran up the steps. Cary intercepted her in the hall.

"Has he gone? Doris----"

"Oh, _did_ you know? How could you let him!" she cried in anguish. "How
could you!"

"Doris--my dear little sister, he loved you so. But I wish it had been
Betty. Oh, don't cry. You have done nothing. I am sorry, but he would
not have been satisfied if he had not spoken. He wanted to ask father
first, but I hated to have _him_ pained if it was not necessary----"

"Thank you for that, Cary. Do not tell him. You will not?" she pleaded,
thinking of the other first.

"No, dear. We must shield him all we can."

Yes, they would try always. There was