At last Paul said:
"Greta, I have something to say."
She was back at her hassock in an instant. The laughter had gone from her eyes, and left a dewy wistfulness.
"You are unhappy. You have been unhappy a long, long time, and have never told me the cause. Tell me now."
The heavy face relaxed.
"What ever put that in your head, little one?" he asked, in a playful tone, patting the golden hair.
"Tell me now," she said more eagerly. "Think of me as a woman fit to share your sorrows, not as a child to be pampered and played with, and never to be burdened with a man's sterner cares. If I am not fit to know your troubles, I am not fit to be your wife. Tell me, Paul, what it is that has taken the sunshine out of your life."
"The sunshine has not been taken out of my life yet, little woman—here it is," said Paul, lightly, and he drew his fingers through the glistening hair.
The girl's lucent eyes fell.
"You are playing with me," she said gravely; "you are always playing with me. Am I so much a child? Are you angry with me?"