"It's neither warm nor cold—just pleasant," continued Dic.
"No," she responded very softly.
"But we must sleep," he ventured to assert.
She would not contradict the statement. She was silent.
"If the days could be like this night, work would be a pleasure," observed Dic, desperately.
"No," came the reply, hardly louder than a breath. She was not thinking of the weather, but Dic stuck faithfully to the blessed topic.
"It may rain soon," he remarked confusedly. There was not a cloud in sight.
"Yes," breathed the pretty figure, smoothing the grass with her foot.
"But—but, I rather think it will not," he said.
The girl was silent. She didn't care if it snowed. She longed for him to drop the subject of the weather and to say something that would give her an opportunity to speak. Her manner, however, was most unassuring, and convinced Dic that he had offended beyond forgiveness, while his distant, respectful formality and persistency in the matter of the weather almost convinced the girl that he was lost to her forever. Thus they stood before each other, as many others have done, a pair of helpless fools within easy reach of paradise. Dic's straightforward habits of thought and action came to his aid, however, and he determined to make at least one more effort to regain the girl's friendly regard. He abandoned the weather and said somewhat abruptly:—