As I called her by her Christian name she gave one quick glance, and then turned her eyes away again. I could see the soft rose creeping over her white neck and cheek. Had I offended? Between hope and desperation, I continued-- "Claire--I will call you Claire, for that was the name you told me just four months ago--I am changed, oh, changed past all remembrance! Are you not changed at all? Am I still nothing to you?" She put up her hand as if to ward off further speech, but spoke no word herself. "Answer me, Claire; give me some answer if only a word. Am I still no more than the beggar who rescued your boat that day?" "Of course, you are my friend--now. Please forget that I took you for a beggar." The words came with effort. Within the bushes the blackbird still chirped expectant, and the ripple below murmured to the bank, "The old story--the old story." "But I am a beggar," I broke out. "Claire, I am always a beggar on my knees before you. Oh, Claire!" Her face was yet more averted--the sun kissed her waving locks with soft lips of gold, the breeze half stirred the delicate draperies around her. The blackbird's note was broken and halting as my own speech. "Claire, have you not guessed? will you never guess? Oh, have pity on me!" I could see the soft bosom heaving now. The little hand was pulling at the gown. Her whole sweet shape drooped away from me in vague alarm--but still no answer came. "Courage! Courage!" chirped the bird, and the river murmured responsive, "Courage!" "Claire!"--and now there was a ring of agony in the voice; the tones came alien and scarcely recognised--"Claire, I have watched and waited for this day, and now that it has come, for good or for evil, answer me--I love you!" O time-honoured and most simple of propositions! "I love you!" Night after night had I lain upon my bed rehearsing speeches, tender, passionate and florid, and lo! to this had it all come--to these three words, which, as my lips uttered them, made my heart leap in awe of their crude and naked daring. And she? The words, as though they smote her, chased for an instant the rich blood from her cheek. For a moment the bosom heaved wildly, then the colour came slowly back, and ebbed again. A soft tremor shook the bending form, the little hand clutched the gown, but she made no answer. "Speak to me, Claire! I love you! With my life and soul I love you. Can you not care for me?" I took the little hand. "Claire, my heart is in your hands--do with it what you will, but speak to me. Can you not--do you not--care for me?" The head drooped lower yet, the warm fingers quivered within mine, then tightened, and-- What was that whisper, that less than whisper, for which I bent my head? Had I heard aright? Or why was it that the figure drooped closer, and the bird's note sprang up jubilant? "Claire!"