"Why, I've loved you all my life, Glen."
"I don't mean that way, Indiana." He took up his mandolin again, nervously.
"I don't know any other way, Glen," she answered, pitifully.
"Not now; but don't you think you could?"
"No, Glen."
"Try me; let's be engaged for a little while, then if you can't love me—"
"Glen, it's no use—I've known you too long."
"Indiana, you don't know what you're saying—you're killing me, Indiana!"
"Glen! Glen!" She threw herself down beside him, and smoothed and patted his hair, soothing him as though he had fallen and hurt himself. He seized her hands, and held them tightly.
"Life means nothing to me, without you, Indiana—you're the key to it. Look here; suppose I was given a beautiful book to read, in a foreign language—the greatest ever written—it would be mere print, wouldn't it? But suppose someone translated it for me, and all its beauty became suddenly revealed. You translate life for me that way, Indiana; don't you understand?"