She glanced at him and tried to smile, but she made no great success of it. "Well?" "Now, what is the matter, Sally? Won't you tell me?" "There's nothing the matter, Jane. I'm simply not in very good spirits." "Sally," said poor Jane softly, "please cheer up and be light-hearted. This isn't like you at all." "I can't help it," Sally answered, sighing. "I've tried. It doesn't happen to me often. I'm not good company, am I?" "You're always good company for me," Jane said simply. Sally did not seem to hear. "Try a pleasant expression," he continued, after a pause, "and see what that does to your spirits." "Thank you," said she coldly, "for nothing." Then she changed suddenly. "I beg your pardon again, Eugene. I was getting ill-tempered. Would you have me put on a pleasant expression when I don't feel like it?" He nodded, smiling. "To see the effect upon your spirits." "As if I were having my photograph taken?" Sally went on, "A sort of 'keep smiling' expression? Think how absurd people would look if they went about grinning." "There is a certain difference between grinning and smiling," Jane replied, "although I can't define it. And you would not look absurd, Sally, whatever you did." "Oh, yes, I would," Sally said, more cheerfully than she had spoken yet, "and so would you. No doubt I am absurd very often; as absurd as you are now." Jane sighed heavily. "I've never seen it, Sally, although I should like to see you absurd in the same way that I am now. I long to. You couldn't be, I suppose." There was no answer to this remark. Waiting for one and listening, Jane heard only the sighing of the wind across the desolate marsh and in the trees, and the soft noise of the water flowing past. Poor Jane was very wretched, largely, no doubt, because of the dreary day and because Sally was wretched. He did not stop to ask why. Then he did something which was very unwise. Even he, in more sober moments, acknowledged its unwisdom. But, after all, would it have made any great difference if the circumstances had been different--Sally being what she was? I think not. Jane thought not. Jane leaned a little nearer. "Sally," he said softly, "can't you like me a little? Can't you--" Sally looked up in surprise. "Why, Jane," she replied simply--and truthfully, "I do like you. You know it." "But, Sally,"--Jane's heart was pounding so that he could not keep the sound of it out of his voice, and his voice was unsteady enough without that,--"but, Sally, can't you--can't you care for me? I--I love you, Sally. I couldn't keep it to myself any longer. I--" "Oh, _Jane_!" Sally was the picture of dismay; utter and absolute dismay. She had withdrawn from him a little. And she had forgotten the state of her spirits. She was startled out of her apathy. "I didn't know you were going to say that. Why, oh, why did you? What made you?"