The churlish tones were so unlike Tim that Sara looked up at him in some amazement. He was staring down at her with a strange, awakened expression in his eyes; his face was very white and his mouth working.
With a sudden apprehension of what was impending, she sprang up, stretching out her hand as though to ward it off.
“No—no, Tim. It isn't—don't say it's that——”
He caught her hand and held it between both his.
“But it is that,” he said, speaking very fast, the serenity of his face all broken up by the surge of emotion that had gripped him. “It is that. I love you. I didn't know it till you spoke of going away. Sara—”
“Oh, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!” She broke in hastily. “Don't say any more, Tim—please don't!”
In the silence that followed the two young faces peered at each other—the one desperate with love, the other full of infinite regret and pleading.
At last—
“It's no use, then?” said Tim dully. “You don't care?”
“I'm afraid I don't—not like that. I thought we were friends—just friends, Tim,” she urged.