“Don’t you know?”
“N—o.” Very doubtfully and shyly.
“Steve’s in love with you!”
“What? Oh, no! You are mistaken.” Ruth was conscious that her reply was silly and weak, and that she was blushing violently.
“Yes, he is—dead in love. Why, everybody knows it—at least Jack does, and Blair does, and I do. And I am, too,” he added, warmly. The boy’s ingenuous declaration steadied Ruth and soothed her. She looked at him with a pleased and gratified light on her face.
“I am—I am dead in love with you, too. I think you are the prettiest and sweetest and kindest young lady in the whole world—just as nice as Blair, every bit; and I just wish I was older—I just wish you could marry me.” He was blushing and turning white by turns, and the expression on his young face was so ingenuous and sweet and modest, and the light in his eyes so adoring, that the girl’s heart went out to him. She drew her horse over to his side, and put her hand softly on his arm.
“Rupert, you are a dear, sweet boy, and, at least, you will let me be your best friend, and you will be mine,” she said, sweetly.
“Yes, I will, and I think you are just as good as you can be, and I’ll be just like your own brother, if you will let me.”
“Indeed, I will, and we will always be sister and brother to each other.”