The boy walked to the edge of the brook. Past him hurried the sun-tipped ripples; under them, in irregular wedge formation, little ones ahead, big ones in the rear, lay a school of trout, wavering silhouettes of amber against the bottom sands.
One arm encircling the birch-tree, she looked after him in silence, waiting. And after a while he turned and came back to her:
"I suppose you knew I fell in love with you that night when—when—you remember, don't you?"
She did not answer.
"I don't know how it happened," he said: "something about you did it. I want to say that I've loved you ever since. It's made me serious.... I haven't bothered with girls since. You are the only woman who interests me. I think about you most of the time when I'm not doing something else," he explained naïvely. "I know perfectly well I'm in love with you because I don't dare touch you—and I've never thought of—of kissing you good-night as we used to before that night last spring.... You remember that we didn't do it that night, don't you?"
Still no answer, and Kathleen's delicate, blue-veined hands were clenched at her sides and her breath came irregularly.
"That was the reason," he said. "I don't know how I've found courage to tell you. I've often been afraid you would laugh at me if I told you.... If it's only our ages—you seem as young as I do...." He looked up, hopefully; but she made no response.
The boy drew a long breath.
"I love you, anyway," he said. "And that's how it is."
She neither spoke nor stirred.