"Should I call you my big sister?"
"Why do you call me sister at all?"
A cloud spread over the young man's face.
"Did we not grow up together like brother and sister?" he asked; "you were six years old when your father took the deserted boy to his home."
"But you are not my brother," persisted Caillette.
"Perhaps not in the sense commonly associated with the term, but yet I love you like a brother. Doesn't this explanation please you?"
"Yes and no. I wished—"
"What would you wish?"
"I had rather not say it," whispered Caillette, and hastily throwing her arms about Fanfaro she kissed him heartily.
Fanfaro did not return the kiss; on the contrary he turned away and worked at the trapeze cord. He divined what was going on in Caillette, as many words hastily spoken had told the young man that the young girl loved him not as the sister loves the brother, but with a more passionate love. Caillette was still unaware of it, but every day, every hour could explain her feelings to her, and Fanfaro feared that moment, for he—did not love her.