She ran lightly down to the veranda and leaned over the railing to the boy in the shadow. He took her hands eagerly in his.
“He loves you, Joscelyn!”
She did not answer. He was too earnest for a jest, so she only pressed his hand and waited.
“He is so noble, so generous, Joscelyn; even among us younger boys he never did a mean thing, and there’s not a man in the company who is not his friend.”
“Yes, I always knew Richard had a kind heart, and his letting you go in his stead was unselfish—beautiful; and I honour him for it.”
“And do you not love him for it also?” the lad begged wistfully. “Say that you love him just a little.”
“Nay, Billy; he is brave and kind, and he is my friend and Betty’s brother, therefore do I wish him naught but good fortune and happiness; but, laddie, I do not love him.”
“You are cruel—heartless!” he cried, flinging her hands away. “Richard’s little finger hath more feeling in it and is worth more than your whole body.”
“Your championship does you credit, Billy, and I shall not quarrel with you for appraising my value so low. Mayhap Richard thinks differently.”