“Oh, something else?” Ethel echoed.
“Yes, and this time I am really tempted to scold,” the mother said, quite seriously. “My dear, I am afraid you are going to make more than one man unhappy, and this one certainly deserves a better fate.”
Ethel avoided her mother's eyes. Her color deepened. Her proud chin quivered.
“What do you mean?” she faltered.
“I mean that I am afraid Paul Rundel is in love with you, too.”
“Paul—oh, how absurd!” the girl answered, her face burning.
“You may say that if you wish, but I shall not change my opinion,” Mrs. Mayfield rejoined, gravely. “I am sure he wouldn't want me to suspect it—in fact, I think he tries to hide it from every one. It is only little signs he shows now and then—the way he looks when your name comes up. The truth is that he can hardly steady his voice when he mentions you. But he will never trouble you with his attentions. He has an idea that there is some understanding between you and Mr. Peterson, and I confess I didn't disabuse his mind. In fact, he said last night, when he and I were out here together, that he would never marry. He has an idea that he ought to remain single so that he may be free to carry out some plans he has for the public good—plans, I think, which mean a sacrifice on his part, in some way or other. He's simply wonderful, my child. He seems to suffer. You know a woman can tell intuitively when a man is that way. He seems both happy and unhappy. I thought I'd speak to you of this so that you may be careful when with him. You can be nice to him, you know, without leading him to think—well, to think as Mr. Peterson does.”
“There is no danger,” Ethel said, wistfully. “I understand him, and I am sure he understands me, but”—she hesitated and caught her mother's arm in a tense clasp, as they started on toward the house—“I am sure, very sure, mother, that he—that Paul is not really in love with me. You don't think so, either, mother—you know you do not! You have so many silly fancies. You imagine that every man who looks at me is in love with me. Paul will never love any woman, much less me. You see, I know. I've talked to him a good deal here of late, and—and I understand him. Really, I do, mother.” Alone in her room, a moment later, Ethel stood before her mirror looking at her reflection.
“He loves me—oh, he loves me!” she whispered. “He's loved me all these years. He is the grandest and best man that ever lived. He has lifted me above the earth, and made me understand the meaning of life. Oh, Paul, Paul!” She sank down by the window and looked out. The rain was beginning to fall heavily. It pattered against the window-sill and wet her sleeve and hair, but she did not move. She breathed in the cooling air as if it were a delightful intoxicant borne down from heaven. The dripping leaves of a honeysuckle tapped her hot cheeks. She thrust her fair head farther out, felt the water trickle down her cheeks and chin, and laughed. Her mood was ecstatic, transcendent, and full of gratitude unspeakable.