The vireo had stopped singing and was swinging on a bough above them.
Ruth sat very still and looked straight before her. She had never seen a soul laid bare before, and the sight thrilled and
troubled her. All the petty artifices which the world had taught her seemed useless before this shining candor.
"And—and you've remembered me all this time?" she asked, with a little tremble in her voice. "I did not know people cared like that."
"And you're not sorry?" persisted Sandy. "You'll let me be your friend?"
She held out her hand with an earnestness as deep as his own. In an instant he had caught it to his lips. All the bloom of the summer rushed to her cheeks, and she drew quickly away.
"Oh! but I'll take it back—I never meant it," cried Sandy, wild with remorse. "Me heart crossed the line ahead of me head, that was all. You've given me your friendship, and may the sorrow seize me if I ever ask for more!"
At this the vireo burst into such mocking, derisive laughter of song that they both looked up and smiled.
"He doesn't think you mean it," said
Ruth; "but you must mean it, else I can't ever be your friend."