"Oh," Gifford burst out, rising, and standing beside her, his big figure looming up in the darkness, "it's this talk of friendship, Lois, that I cannot stand. You see, I love you." There was silence for one long moment. It was so still they could hear the bubbling of the spring, like a soft voice, complaining in the darkness. Then Lois said, under her breath, "Oh, Gifford!" "Yes, I do," he went on, desperately. "I know you've never thought of such a thing; somehow, I could not seem to make you see it,--you wouldn't see it; but I do love you, and--and, Lois--if you could care, just a little? I've loved you so long." Lois shrank back against the silver-poplar tree, and put her hands up to her face. In a moment tenderness made the young man forget his anxiety. "Did I startle you?" he said, sitting down beside her; but he did not take her hand, as he might have done in their old frank friendship. "I'm so sorry, but I couldn't help telling you. I know you've been unconscious of it, but how could a fellow help loving you, Lois? And I couldn't go away to Lockhaven and not know if there was any chance for me. Can you care, a--little?" She did not speak until he said again, his voice trembling with a sudden hope, "Won't you say one word, Lois?" "Why, Giff," she said, sitting up very straight, and looking at him, her wet eyes shining in the darkness, "you know I care--I've always cared, but not that way--and--and--you don't, Giff, you don't really--it's just a fancy." "It is not a fancy," he answered quietly. "I knew I loved you that first time I came home from college. But you were too young; it would not have been right. And then before I went abroad, I tried to tell you once; but I thought from the way you spoke you did not care. So I didn't say anything more; but I love you, and I always shall." "Oh, Gifford," Lois cried, with a voice full of distress, "you _mustn't_! Why, don't you see? You're just like my brother. Oh, do please let us forget all this, and let's be just as we used to be." "We cannot," he said gently. "But I won't make you unhappy; I won't speak if you tell me to be silent." "Indeed, I do tell you to be silent," she said, in a relieved tone. "I--could not, Giff. So we'll just forget it. Promise me you will forget it?" He shook his head, with a slow smile. "You must forget it, if it will make you any happier; but you cannot ask me to forget. I am happier to remember. I shall always love you, Lois." "But you mustn't!" she cried again. "Why can't we have just the old friendship? Indeed--indeed, it never could be anything else; and," with a sudden break of tenderness in her voice, "I--I really am so fond of you, Giff!" Here the young man smiled a little bitterly. Friendship separated them as inexorably as though it had been hate!