“No, I am not,” said Alfred. Then suddenly: “A year ago this very day we were here.”
“Here? Oh, yes, I believe I do remember. It was the day we came in my canoe and had such fine fishing.”
“Is that all you remember?”
“I can recollect nothing in particular. It was so long ago.”
“I suppose you will say you had no idea why I wanted you to come to this spot in particular.”
“I supposed you simply wanted to take a walk, and it is very pleasant here.”
“Then Col. Zane did not tell you?” demanded Alfred. Receiving no reply he went on.
“Did you read my letter?”
“What letter?”
“The letter old Sam should have given you last fall. Did you read it?”
“Yes,” answered Betty, faintly.
“Did your brother tell you I wanted to see you this morning?”
“Yes, he told me, and it made me very angry,” said Betty, raising her head. There was a bright red spot in each cheek. “You—you seemed to think you—that I—well—I did not like it.”
“I think I understand; but you are entirely wrong. I have never thought you cared for me. My wildest dreams never left me any confidence. Col. Zane and Wetzel both had some deluded notion that you cared—”
“But they had no right to say that or to think it,” said Betty, passionately. She sprang to her feet, scattering the daisies over the grass. “For them to presume that I cared for you is absurd. I never gave them any reason to think so, for—for I—I don’t.”
“Very well, then, there is nothing more to be said,” answered Alfred, in a voice that was calm and slightly cold. “I’m sorry if you have been annoyed. I have been mad, of course, but I promise you that you need fear no further annoyance from me. Come, I think we should return to the house.”
And he turned and walked slowly up the path. He had taken perhaps a dozen steps when she called him.
“Mr. Clarke, come back.”
Alfred retraced his steps and stood before her again. Then he saw a different Betty. The haughty poise had disappeared. Her head was bowed. Her little hands were tightly pressed over a throbbing bosom.
“Well,” said Alfred, after a moment.
“Why—why are you in such a hurry to go?”
“I have learned what I wanted to know. And after that I do not imagine I would be very agreeable. I am going back. Are you coming?”
“I did not mean quite—quite what I said,” whispered Betty.
“Then what did you mean?” asked Alfred, in a stern voice.
“I don’t know. Please don’t speak so.”
“Betty, forgive my harshness. Can you expect a man to feel as I do and remain calm? You know I love you. You must not trifle any longer. You must not fight any longer.”
“But I can’t help fighting.”
“Look at me,” said Alfred, taking her hands. “Let me see your eyes. I believe you care a little for me, or else you wouldn’t have called me back. I love you. Can you understand that?”
“Yes, I can; and I think you should love me a great deal to make up for what you made me suffer.”
“Betty, look at me.”
Slowly she raised her head and lifted the downcast eyes. Those telltale traitors no longer hid her secret. With a glad cry Alfred caught her in his arms. She tried to hide her face, but he got his hand under her chin and held it firmly so that the sweet crimson lips were very near his own. Then he slowly bent his head.
Betty saw his intention, closed her eyes and whispered:
“Alfred, please don’t—it’s not fair—I beg of you—Oh!”
That kiss was Betty’s undoing. She uttered a strange little cry. Then her dark head found a hiding place over his heart, and her slender form, which a moment before had resisted so fiercely, sank yielding into his embrace.
“Betty, do you dare tell me now that you do not care for me?” Alfred whispered into the dusky hair which rippled over his breast.
Betty was brave even in her surrender. Her hands moved slowly upward along his arms, slipped over his shoulders, and clasped round his neck. Then she lifted a flushed and tearstained face with tremulous lips and wonderful shining eyes.
“Alfred, I do love you—with my whole heart I love you. I never knew until now.”
The hours flew apace. The prolonged ringing of the dinner bell brought the lovers back to earth, and to the realization that the world held others than themselves. Slowly they climbed the familiar path, but this time as never before. They walked hand in hand. From the bluff they looked back. They wanted to make sure they were not dreaming. The water rushed over the fall more musically than ever before; the white patches of foam floated round and round the shady pool; the leaves of the sycamore rustled cheerily in the breeze. On a dead branch a woodpecker hammered industriously.
“Before we get out of sight of that dear old tree I want to make a confession,” said Betty, as she stood before Alfred. She was pulling at the fringe on his hunting coat.
“You need not make confessions to me.”
“But this was dreadful; it preys on my conscience.”
“Very well, I will be your judge. Your punishment shall be slight.”
“One day when you were lying unconscious from your wound, Bessie sent me to watch you. I nursed you for hours, and—and—do not think badly of me—I—I kissed you.”
“My darling,” cried the enraptured young man.
When they at last reached the house they found Col. Zane on the doorstep.
“Where on earth have you been?” he said. “Wetzel was here. He said he would not wait to see you. There he goes up the hill. He is behind that laurel.”
They looked and presently saw the tall figure of the hunter emerge from the bushes. He stopped and leaned on his rifle. For a minute he remained motionless. Then he waved his hand and plunged into the thicket. Betty sighed and Alfred said:
“Poor Wetzel! ever restless, ever roaming.”
“Hello, there!” exclaimed a
