'If any person on the stage,' she answered lightly, 'spoke of love in that tone, the whole house would laugh at him.' 'That is the only thing that runs in your thoughts now,' I said gloomily. 'What?' she exclaimed. 'Love? I meant the stage. You think of nothing but acting.' 'Well--perhaps! What else have I to think of that brings any happiness to me?' 'I thought you loved me, Jessie.' 'So I do, Chris,' she said in careless fashion, still toying with the flower. 'And others, too,' I added. 'Well, yes--if you please. There are always more than two persons in the world.' 'Jessie!' I implored. 'It hurts me to hear you speak in that careless way. I cannot believe that it is in your nature to think and speak so lightly of what is most precious.' 'Why cannot you believe so?' she asked, somewhat more seriously. 'Am I the only one who lightly regards a precious gift--am I the only one who does not know the value of love?' 'I at least know the value of it, Jessie. Ah, you would believe me if you knew what I would do for you.' 'I think you love me, Chris.' 'With all my heart, Jessie; with all my soul!' She trembled a little at the passion of my words. 'Tell me,' she said, averting her head, 'what would you do for me?' I answered that there was no sacrifice that I would not willingly, cheerfully make for her sake; that I thought of none but her, that I loved none but her; that if all the world were on one side, and she alone on the other, I would fly to her, and deem myself blessed to live only for her. This, and much more that has been said a myriad times before, and will be said a myriad times again, I said passionately and fervently. She listened in silence, and then, after a pause, told me she believed I had spoken the true feelings of my heart, and that she was sure I had meant every word I had uttered. And then she pinned Gus West's flower to the bosom of her dress, and asked me if it did not look well there. Miserably, I answered Yes, and felt as though all the brightness were dying out of the world. 'But you have something else to say to me,' Jessie presently remarked; 'what you have already said is very pleasant to me. Now for the unpleasant thing.' The conversation with my mother, which in the heat of my declaration had slipped out of my mind, now recurred to me, and I told Jessie that my mother was very anxious about her. 'In what way?' she asked. 'Where do you go to every day, Jessie? Mother tells me that you go out regularly at eleven o'clock every morning, and that you do not return until four in the afternoon, and that you don't spend that time at the Wests'.' 'Has she been watching me?' 'No, Jessie.' 'Have you?' 'No,' I replied, very hurt at the question; 'you don't think I would play the spy upon you!' 'Oh, I don't know,' she said, with a toss of her head; 'persons do strange things when they are in love.' 'You seem to know a great deal, Jessie.' She appeared to be both pleased and discontented at this remark.