“I’m not—” and mirth lighted her eyes—“I’m not taking you at all!”
“Zee,”—and he drew still nearer, so that he could have put out his hand and touched her.
“Please,” she begged, grave again, “please forget all about the song,—and me! I wish you to,—very much. There are reasons,—a great many reasons,—why you must forget all about the song you liked, and everything that I may—suggest to you. Won’t you believe me,—please?”
“There can’t be any reasons that make any difference.”
“You can be kind if you will,” she said, “and merciful.”
“There is a reason; there is myself! I’m not fit to call your name or to stand near you. I have little to offer; but I love you, Zee,”—and the sincerity of his plea touched her, so that she did not speak for a moment, but stood staring at the rain-beaten pane with eyes that saw nothing.
“You could spare me—if you would,” she said.
“I would give my life for you,” he answered steadily, unyieldingly. “But I can’t let you put me aside,—for any idle fears or doubts. You must tell me what troubles you; you have not told me that you did not care. I shall not go until you tell me what it is that weighs against me. I have a right to one or the other.”
She looked at him suddenly; it would be easy to say that she did not care; but her eyes filled at the thought, and she turned to the window again. The beat of hoofs upon the hard street struck upon her with a sense of the world’s vastness and the wind in the cedars sang like a mournful prophet of the coming winter. She could not tell him that he meant nothing to her, when he meant so nearly all; but if she should set up a barrier, it might be enough and he would go.
“You know we have had trouble,—that my father has met with losses,—and he needs me. My duty is here; that must be a sufficient reason.”