“Mr Bayle,” she said, with some attempt at firmness, “if I have ever by my thoughtlessness made you think I cared for you, otherwise than as a very great friend, forgive me.”
“A friend!” he cried bitterly.
“Yes, as a friend. Is friendship so slight a thing that you speak of it like that?”
“Yes,” he cried; “at a time like this, when I ask for bread and you give me a stone.”
“Oh, hush!” she said again softly; and there was a sad smile through her tears. “I should be cruel if I did not speak to you plainly and firmly. Mr Bayle, what you ask is impossible.”
“You despise me,” he cried passionately, “because I am so boyish—so young.”
“No,” she said gently, as she laid her hand upon his shoulder. “Let me speak to you as an elder sister might.”
“A sister!” he cried angrily.
“Yes, as a sister,” replied Millicent gently. “Christie Bayle, it was those very things in you that attracted me first. I never had a brother; but you, with your frank and free-hearted youthfulness, your genuine freshness of nature, seemed so brotherly, that my life for the past few months has been brighter than ever. Our reading, our painting, our music—Oh, why did you dash all these happy times away?”
“Because I am not a boy,” he cried angrily; “because I am a man—a man who loves you. Millicent, will you not give me hope?”