"But have you told me nothing?"
"I have called you my hero,—and so you are."
"Nay, Edith, it is more than that. It is not for me to remind you, but it is more than that."
She stood there blushing before him, over her cheeks and up to her forehead; but yet did not turn away her face.
"How am I to tell you why it is more than that? You cannot tell me," she replied.
"But, Edith—"
"You cannot tell me. There are moments for some of us the feelings of which can never be whispered. You shall be my hero and my brother if you will; or my hero and my friend; or, if not that, my hero and my enemy."
"Never!"
"No, my enemy you cannot be; for him who is about to revenge my brother's death no name less sweet than dearest friend will suffice. My hero and my dearest friend!"
Then she took him by the hand, and turned away from the walk, and, escaping by a narrow path, was seen no more till she met him at dinner with her father and her brother and her sister.