"But this is very beautiful to me—so beautiful I must tell it."
"If you are so distracted about it, after the fashion of the Ancient Mariner and his tale, I know you have told it to at least half a dozen other girls."
"Never!" cried Earle; "never once! It is the story of my love, and I never loved any one but you."
"You have the advantage of me," said Doris, with a charming air. "It seems you have loved once; I never loved."
"Doris! Doris! Don't say that!" cried Earle, in agony.
"Not? Why, how many experiences should I have had at my age?" demanded Doris, with infantine archness.
"Yes, you are a child—a sweet, innocent child. But love me, Doris. Love me and be my wife. You know I adore you. Do not drive me to despair. I cannot live without you! Will you be my wife?"
Doris looked thoughtfully at Earle. From her eyes, her face, one would have said that she was realizing for the first time the great problem of love; that love was dawning in her young soul as she listened to Earle's pleading.
But in her heart she was telling herself that this play of love would give a new zest to her life at the farm, would add a little excitement to daily dullness; that, even if she promised, she need not be bound if anything better came in her way. Earle Moray might be the best husband she could find. What was it Mr. Leslie had said about him?
Earle, unconscious of this dark abyss in his idol's soul, sat watching the wide, violet eyes, the gently parted lips, the pink flush growing like the morning on her rounded cheek.