“Why do you ask him so often then?” “_I_ don’t ask him. Mamma is fond of him, and so--” “You are the victim!” “I can bear it; I have consolations!” She laughed merrily. “How do you like my binding?” he asked, when they had ridden awhile in silence. She looked up with a question. “The binding of my book, I mean,” he explained. “It is a good color.” He felt his hope rather damped. “Will you let me read a little from it?” “With pleasure. You shall have an audience in the drawing-room, after luncheon.” “Oh, Lufa! how could you think I would read my own poems to a lot of people!” “I beg your pardon! Will the summer-house do?” “Yes, indeed; nowhere better.” “Very well! The summer-house, after lunch!” This was not encouraging! Did she suspect what was coming? and was she careful not to lead the way to it? She had never been like this before! Perhaps she did not like having the book dedicated to her! But there was no mention of her name, or anything to let “the heartless world” know to whom it was offered! As they approached the house, Walter said, “Would you mind coming at once to the summer-house?” “Lunch will be ready.” “Then sit down in your habit, and come immediately after. Let me have my way for once, Lufa.” “Very well.” CHAPTER XXII. THE SUMMER-HOUSE. The moment the meal was over, he left the room, and in five minutes they met at the place appointed--a building like a miniature Roman temple. “Oh,” said Lufa, as she entered, “I forgot the book. How stupid of me!” “Never mind,” returned Walter. “It was you, not the book I wanted.” A broad bench went round the circular wall; Lufa seated herself on it, and Walter placed himself beside her, as near as he dared. For some moments he did not speak. She looked up at him inquiringly. He sunk at her feet, bowed his head toward her, and but for lack of courage would have laid it on her knees. “Oh, Lufa!” he said, “you can not think how I love you!” “Poor, dear boy!” she returned, in the tone of a careless mother to whom a son has unburdened his sorrows, and laid her hand lightly on his curls. The words were not repellent, but neither was the tone encouraging. “You do not mind my saying it?” he resumed, feeling his way timidly. “What could you do but tell me?” she answered. “What could I do for you if you did not let me know! I’m _so_ sorry, Walter!” “Why should you be sorry? You can do with me as you please!” “I don’t know about such things. I don’t quite know what you mean, or what you want. I will be as kind to you as I can--while you stay with us.” “But, Lufa--I may call you Lufa?” “Yes, surely! if that is any comfort to you.” “Nothing but your love, Lufa, can be a comfort to me. That would make me one of the blessed!” “I like you very much. If you were a girl, I should say I loved you.” “Why not say it as it is?” “Would you be content with the love I should give a girl? Some of you want so much!”