"Well, well," impatiently; "I have warned you. It will not be my fault if----O! it is foolish of you!" she blurts out suddenly. "I have told you I don't understand myself: and still you waste yourself--you throw yourself away. In the end you will be disappointed in me, if not in one way, then in another. It hurts me to think of that. There is time still; let us be friends--friends----" Her hands are tightly clasped, she looks at him with a world of entreaty in her beautiful eyes. "Friends, Felix!" breathes she softly. "Let things rest as they are, I beseech you," says he, taking her hand and holding it in a tight grasp. "The future--who can ever say what that great void will bring us. I will trust to it; and if only loss and sorrow be my portion, still----As for friendship, Joyce; whatever happens I shall be your friend and lover." "Well--you quite know," says the girl, almost sullenly. "Quite. And I accept the risk. Do not be angry with me, my beloved." He lifts the hand he holds and presses it to his lips, wondering always at the coldness of it. "You are free, Joyce; you desire it so, and I desire it, too. I would not hamper you in any way." "I should not be able to endure it, if--afterward--I thought you were reproaching me," says she, with a little weary smile. "Be happy about that," says he: "I shall never reproach you." He is silent for a moment; her last speech has filled him with thoughts that presently grow into extremely happy ones: unless--unless she liked him--cared for him, in some decided, if vague manner, would his future misery be of so much importance to her? Oh! surely not! A small flood of joy flows over him. A radiant smile parts his lips. The light of a coming triumph that shall gird and glorify his whole life illumines his eyes. She regarding him grows suddenly uneasy. "You--you fully understand," says she, drawing back from him. "Oh, you have made me do that," says he, but his radiant smile still lingers. "Then why," mistrustfully, "do you look so happy?" She draws even further away from him. It is plain she resents that happiness. "Is there not reason?" says he. "Have you not let me speak, and having spoken, do you not still let me linger near you? It is more than I dared hope for! Therefore, poor as is my chance, I rejoice now. Do not forbid me. I may have no reason to rejoice in the future. Let me, then, have my day." "It grows very late," says Miss Kavanagh abruptly. "Let us go home." Silently they turn and descend the hill. Halfway down he pauses and looks backward. "Whatever comes of it," says he, "I shall always love this spot. Though, if the year's end leave me desolate, I hope I shall never see it again." "It is unlucky to rejoice too soon," says she, in a low whisper.