“What does it come to?” he asked.
For a moment, not thinking of the old fancy, she made no answer; but then, remembering, held out the stalk with one remaining petal, and smiled.
“He loves me not.”
“It’s not true. He loves you passionately. He always will.”
With a sigh Winnie threw away the flower.
“Won’t you speak to me, Winnie?”
“What do you want me to say?”
He took her hand kindly, and looked into her eyes, trying to discover her thoughts, trying from sheer force of his own love, to make her tender.
“Oh, Harry, I’m so unhappy,” she murmured at last. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Can’t you love me, Winnie?” he asked, drawing her towards him. “Did you mean it when you told me never to hope?”