"So do I," answered Glen. He gazed around him. Nature so beautifully revealed just then, inspired him to speak. "There are not many days like this," he thought, "and now, it is measured by moments. Before it is over I will tell her!" He leaned over his mandolin, watching a little brown bug struggle through the grass, then he gazed upward. The rosy light still lingered on the orchard. "Before it fades, I will ask her." Stillwater’s caution recurred to him. "’Don’t spring anything on Indiana!’ He didn’t make allowances for a moment like this," thought Glen. "He didn’t think it was going to be such a day." He was very pale, and his fingers shook slightly as they laid the mandolin down on the grass. "Do you think you could love me, Indiana?" he said, simply. "Why, I’ve loved you all my life, Glen." "I don’t mean that way, Indiana." He took up his mandolin again, nervously. "I don’t know any other way, Glen," she answered, pitifully. "Not now; but don’t you think you could?" "No, Glen." "Try me; let’s be engaged for a little while, then if you can’t love me—" "Glen, it’s no use—I’ve known you too long." "Indiana, you don’t know what you’re saying—you’re killing me, Indiana!" "Glen! Glen!" She threw herself down beside him, and smoothed and patted his hair, soothing him as though he had fallen and hurt himself. He seized her hands, and held them tightly. "Life means nothing to me, without you, Indiana—you’re the key to it. Look here; suppose I was given a beautiful book to read, in a foreign language—the greatest ever written—it would be mere print, wouldn’t it? But suppose someone translated it for me, and all its beauty became suddenly revealed. You translate life for me that way, Indiana; _don’t you understand_?" "Yes, yes, Glen. But if I marry you, that will be the end. You’re too much a part of the old life—" "The old life, Indiana? Isn’t that the best life?" "Not for me." "You don’t know what you’re saying. If I live to be a hundred, I want to live true to the old life, to the old ideals and the old truths, even the simple ones I learned at home, when I was a little lad." "You’re a good fellow, Glen; shake hands with me!" "Won’t you think about it, Indiana?" "No, dear! I hate to say it—but I want to be straight with you. Something tells me it’s not the right thing for us to marry. Don’t say any more—don’t try to persuade me—it’s no use." "All right, Indiana." "Don’t look like that, Glen! you’ll break my heart. Life isn’t over for you, because—of this. It’s a beautiful world still—look at the blossoms, look at the day!" "It’s not the same," said Glen, holding his hand to his eyes. "It’ll never be the same." "Oh, yes, it will, dear; after a while. I don’t want to lose you, Glen; you’ll be my dear old friend still. Say you will!"