like to do," he said, "would be to send Jim to some first-rate school until he is ready for college. Then I'd like to see him through college, and, if he cared for it, start him with me in business."
"Oh," she cried softly, "is it possible! Is there—can any man really do such heavenly things? Have you any idea what you are saying? Do you realize what you are doing to me—with every word you utter?"
"What am I doing to—to you?" he asked unsteadily.
"Making me your slave," she said, in a low voice, thrilling with generous passion. "Even for the thought—even if father will not accept—what you have said to me to-night has put me in your
debt forever. Truly—truly, I know what friendship is, now."
She clasped her hands tightly and said something else, sweetly incoherent; and, in the starlight, Marche saw the tears sparkling on her lashes.
With that he sprang nervously to the shore and began to tramp up and down the shingle, his mind in a whirl, every sense, common or the contrary, clamoring for finality—urging him to tell her the truth—tell her that he loved her, that he wanted her—her alone, out of all the world of women—that it was for love and for her, and for love of her, that he offered anything, did anything, thought anything now under the high stars or under the circling sun.
And now, as he tramped savagely to
and fro, he realized that he had begun wrong; that he should have told her he loved her first of all, and then acted, not promised.
Would she look on his offer scornfully, now? Would she see, in what he asked of her, a bribe desired for the offer he had made in her brother's behalf? She did not love him. How could she, in a week? Never had there been even a hint of sentiment between them. What would she think—this young girl, so tranquilly confident in her friendship for him—what would she think of him and his love? He knew there was nothing mercenary or material in her character; he knew she was young, sweet tempered, reticent concerning herself, clean hearted, and