"Oh, mother!"
A wave of crimson surged into March's pale face, and the sensitive nostrils quivered; then two big drops plashed down upon the letter which he handed to his mother.
"Oh, mother! if only I could--but I can't!"
He rolled over on the soft pasture turf, face downwards, his head resting on his arms.
"Why, March dear," said his mother, tenderly, "why can't you? I think it 's beautiful, so does father."
A sob shook the long, thin frame. His mother laid her hand on the back of the yellow head. "What is it, my dear boy? Can't you tell me?"
The head shook energetically beneath her hand, and muffled words issued from the grass.
"But, March, we thought it would please you to have such an opportunity. You have read what Mr. Clyde says--you can look upon it as a loan. I hope you won't have any false pride in this matter--"
"'Tis n't false, mother," came forth from the grass, "and I would like to accept his offer, if only it were n't just his."
"Why not his, March? Surely, Hazel has been like one of us--a real little sister--" Another vigorous wagging of the yellow head arrested his mother in the midst of her sentence.