“I think you’re the best, the dearest——” He stopped, with something that was almost a sob. “I can’t tell you what I think you are, Holly; I haven’t the words, dear.”
“I don’t suppose you ought to, anyhow,” said Holly, thoughtfully.
“Holly, have I—have I been to blame?”
“No,” she answered quickly. “It was just—just me, I reckon. I prayed God that He wouldn’t let me love you, but I reckon He has to look after so many girls that—that care for the wrong people that He didn’t have time to bother with Holly Wayne. Anyhow, it didn’t seem to do much good. Maybe, though, He wanted me to love you—in spite of—of everything. Do you reckon He did?”
“Yes,” said Winthrop, fiercely, “I reckon He did. And He’s got to take the consequences! Holly, I’m not fit for you; I’m twenty years older than you are; I’ve been married and I’ve had the bloom brushed off of life, dear; but if you’ll take me, Holly, if you’ll take me, dear——”
“Oh!” Holly arose to her feet and held a hand toward him appealingly. “Please don’t! Please!” she cried. “Don’t spoil it all!”
“Spoil it?” he asked, wonderingly.
He got slowly to his feet and moved toward her.
“You know what I mean,” said Holly, troubledly. “I do love you, and you love me——you do love me, don’t you?”
“Yes,” he answered, simply.