“Yes, I remember,” she said, dropping her head over the bright waters. “What precocious children we were, Lord Towyn.”
The young earl sighed.
“The utterance of my title shows the great gulf between the now and the then,” he said. “I was no lord in those days, and you called me Arthur. Now when your name comes instinctively to my lips, I must remember that you are no longer Neva, but Miss Wynde. Why will you not call me by the old name, and let us take up our old friendship where we left off, instead of beginning anew as strangers?”
“I am willing,” said Neva frankly, yet shyly. “I—I look upon you as a brother, Arthur, and you may call me Neva.”
Strange to say, the permission thus granted did not seem to delight Lord Towyn. His warm blue eyes clouded over with a singular discontent, and a pained expression gathered about his mouth.
“I don’t want to be considered as your brother, Neva,” he declared, after a minute’s struggle with himself. “I would prefer to begin again as your merest acquaintance. A fraternal relation toward you would be insupportable. For years I have dreamed and hoped that I might some time win your love. I am no longer a boy, Neva, and I love you with a man’s love. I have carried your picture for years next my heart. I have worshiped you in secret ever since our childhood. I do not know how I have been betrayed into this confession, Neva,” he added. “I did not intend to be so premature. I do not yet ask you to love or to marry me, but I do ask you to allow me to become your suitor.”
Neva’s heart thrilled under this ardent and impassioned declaration as under an angel’s touch. Then a leaden pall seemed to descend upon her soul, and her face grew white, as she faltered:
“It cannot be, Arthur.”
Lord Towyn shivered with sudden pain.
“You—you are not promised to another, Neva?”