“No--ah, no.” And the thought of that old time came upon me like a flood--the winter games at the Cedars--the blackberrying and bilberrying upon the sunshiny summer moors--the grief when he went to school, and the joy when he came home again--the love that was so innocent, so painless. And he had loved me ever since--me, not Lisabel; though for a time he tried flirting with her, he owned, just to find out whether or not I cared for him. I hid my face and sobbed. And then, I had need to recover self-control; it is such an awful thing to see a man weep. I stood by Colin till we were both calmer: trusting all was safe over; and that without the one question I most dreaded. But it came. “Dora, _why_ do you not care for me? Is there--tell me or not, as you like--is there any one else?” Conscience! let me be as just to myself as I would be to another in my place. Once, I wrote that I had been “mistaken,” as I have been in some things, but not in all. Could I have honestly said so, taking all blame on myself and freeing all others from everything save mere kindness to a poor girl who was foolish enough, but very honest and true, and wholly ignorant of where things were tending, till too late; if I could have done this, I believe I should then and there have confessed the whole truth to Colin Granton. But as things are, it was impossible. Therefore I said, and started to notice how literally my words imitated other words, the secondary meaning of which had struck me differently from their first, “that it was not likely I should ever be married.” Colin asked no more. The dressing-bell rang, and I again tried to get away; but he whispered “Stop one minute--my mother--what am I to tell my mother?” “How much does she know?” “Nothing. But she guesses, poor dear--and I was always going to tell her outright; but somehow I couldn't. But now, as you will tell your father and sisters, and--” “No, Colin; I shall not tell any human being.” And I was thankful that if I could not return his love I could at least save his pride, and his mother's tender heart. “Tell her nothing; go home and be brave for her sake. Let her see that her boy is not unhappy. Let her feel that not a girl in the land is more precious to him than his old mother.” “That's true!” he said, with a hard breath. “I won't break her dear old heart. I'll will, Dora.” hold my tongue and bear it. “I know you will,” and I held out my hand. Surely, that clasp wronged no one; for it was hardly like a lover's--only my old playmate--Colin, my dear. We then agreed, that if his mother asked any questions, he should simply tell her that he had changed his mind concerning me, and that otherwise the matter should be buried with him and me, now and always. “Except only”--and he seemed about to tell me something, but stopped, saying it was of no matter--it was all as one now. I asked no farther, only desiring to get away.