"Because, for the insignificant sum of two cents, I would tell you," he went on.
"I haven't two cents with me," said Margaret. "I think it is time to go home now, Gerald."
"Generosity is part of my nature," said Gerald; "I'll tell you for nothing. Margaret—sit down, please!"
Margaret had risen to her feet. The words had the old merry ring, but a deep note quivered in his voice. The girl was afraid, she knew not of what; afraid, yet with a fear that was half joy. "I—I must go, Gerald, indeed!" she said, faintly.
"You must not go," said Gerald, gravely. "It is not all play, Margaret, between you and me. My cap and bells are off now, and you must hear what I have to say."
Margaret, still hesitating, looked up in his face, and saw something there that brought the sweet color flooding over her neck and brow, so swift and hot that instinctively she hid her face in her hands.
But gently, tenderly, Gerald Merryweather drew the slender hands away, and held them close in his own.
"My dearest girl," said the young man, "my dearest love, you are not afraid of me? Sit down by me; sit down, my Margaret, and let me tell you what my heart has been saying ever since the day I first saw you."
So dear Margaret sat down, perhaps because she could hardly stand, and listened. And the black cattle listened, too, and so did the fish-hawk overhead, and the little birds peeping from their nest in the birch wood close at hand; but none of them ever told what Gerald said.