She seemed frightened when she had said this, and she half sat up, clasping an arm about his neck.
“Is it wrong?” she whispered—“is it wrong for me to care more for you than I do for Jack? He is my own brother. It does not seem that I could love him more than I do, and yet, somehow, I seem to care more for you, Frank, than I do for Jack. Oh! I am afraid it is wrong. I am afraid I am a wicked girl!”
“There! there!” he exclaimed, smoothing back her hair and patting her head. “Don’t get so excited over it, Nellie. You simply fancy now that you care more for me—that’s all.”
She shook her head, leaning away back as she did so.
“No! no! no!” she whispered. “It is not fancy. I did not think I could care more for anybody than I did for Jack; but, this very day, the truth came to me, and I knew I loved you more. I don’t know what you will think of me for telling you all this. I can’t help it, Frank! I must tell somebody, and I can’t tell Jack. I couldn’t keep the secret longer. I thought I would bury it deep in my heart, and never, never let anybody know; but I could not keep it. If there had been some one else for me to tell, I should not have told you; but there was no one to whom I could talk about you, save Jack, and I could not tell him my secret. He must not know it. It would break his heart.”
Frank knew not what to say. For the first time he was confused.
“Lie down and sleep, Nellie,” he finally murmured. “I know your nerves are unstrung, for you are trembling all over.”
“It is because I am happy,” she declared, and the color came to her face that had been so pale. “I am happy because I told you my secret. You must keep it for me. It will be a secret between us. Oh, I have not had a secret for so long, and it is just lovely to have one now!”
Again she appeared like a mere child, and the troubled look disappeared from Frank Merriwell’s face.
“Yes,” he returned; “if you say so, it shall be our secret, dear little girl. But you must not care for me more than you do for your brother.”