"Why did you do it?" he asked. "I know you heard what I said to Rose, but what is she to you?"
"A great deal," she responded, "but not so much as the boy I love so dearly—the boy I have been a mother to, and yet I haven't been a true mother, for I never have talked to you of these things because they were hard. You see I have failed in my duty."
Instantly he was all tenderness. He drew her down into his boyish long arms and laid his head against hers. "You have not failed in anything, you darling!" he cried. "But it wouldn't hurt me. I'm a man. All the fellows do that way."
"How do you know?"
"They tell about it. We don't all talk about it in a crowd, but just when we are together, like John and me."
"Does John treat Rose that way?"
The boy grew warm in a minute. "He'd better not; he went too far to suit me to-night."
"Why did he?" she asked quietly. "You were rather free towards Dorothy."
"Dorothy is different; she's a—she's—well, she's a jolly good fellow, but Rose—well, I like Rose, and every fellow better keep his hands off her. I don't want a girl all the fellows can love; but I'm different. Those things don't hurt a fellow; he's coarser and—well, it's expected of him."
"But they do hurt you," she said. "The little book of memories that Rose gave you this afternoon told a story of its own. I am going to tell you this story."