"Why!" exclaimed Indiana. "It wouldn't seem like the Adirondacks, if you weren't there."
Glen smiled gratefully.
"How are the folks?"
"Well, thanks. They were talking about you, to-day."
"I'll ride over there to-morrow."
"They'll be glad to see you. They love you just—just like a daughter."
"I like people to love me," said Indiana.
"So do I," answered Glen. He gazed around him. Nature so beautifully revealed just then, inspired him to speak. "There are not many days like this," he thought, "and now, it is measured by moments. Before it is over I will tell her!" He leaned over his mandolin, watching a little brown bug struggle through the grass, then he gazed upward. The rosy light still lingered on the orchard.
"Before it fades, I will ask her." Stillwater's caution recurred to him. "'Don't spring anything on Indiana!' He didn't make allowances for a moment like this," thought Glen. "He didn't think it was going to be such a day." He was very pale, and his fingers shook slightly as they laid the mandolin down on the grass.
"Do you think you could love me, Indiana?" he said, simply.