It was rather the suggestion of a ruin, for the walls were not standing; only this stone chimney with the wide, blackened fireplace, and the flat doorstones before what was once the threshold. Grass and brambles covered the foundations; lilacs, with spikes of brown dead blossoms, grew tall and thick around it, and roses, gone back to wild singleness, blossomed near the steps and along a path, which was only a memory, the grass had tangled so above it. Max kept his nose under Lois's hand, and the horse stumbled once over a stone that had rolled from the broken foundation and hidden itself beneath a dock. The mushrooms had opened their little shining brown umbrellas, as Lois had said, on the very hearth, and she stooped down to gather them and put them in her basket of sweet grass. From the bushes at one side came the sudden note of a bob-white; Max pricked his ears. "Lois," Gifford said abruptly, still telling himself that he was a fool,--but then, it was all so commonplace, so free from sentiment, so public, with Max, and the horse, and the bob-white, it could not trouble her just to--"Lois, I'd like--I'd like to tell you something, if you don't mind." "What?" she said pleasantly; her basket was full, and they began to walk back to the road again. Gifford stopped to let his horse crop the thick wet grass about a fallen gate-post. He threw his arm over the bay's neck, and Lois leaned her elbows on the other post, swinging her basket lightly while she waited for him to speak. The mist had quite gone by this time, and the sky was a fresh, clear blue. "Well," he began, suddenly realizing that this was a great deal harder than he had supposed ("She'll think I'm going to bother her with a proposal," he thought),--"well, the fact is, Lois, there's something I want you to know. Perhaps it doesn't really interest you, in one way; I mean, it is only a--a happiness of my own, and it won't make any difference in our friendship, but I wanted you to know it." In a moment Miss Deborah's suggestion was a certainty to Lois. She clasped her hands tight around the handle of her grass basket; Gifford should not see them tremble. "I'm sure I'll be glad to hear anything that makes you happy." Her voice had a dull sound in her own ears. "Helen put it into my head to tell you," Gifford went on nervously. "I hope you won't feel that I am not keeping my word"-- She held her white chin a little higher. "I don't know of any 'word,' as you call it, that there is for you to keep, Gifford." "Why, that I would not trouble you, you know, Lois," he faltered. "Have you forgotten?" "What!" Lois exclaimed, with a start, and a thrill in her voice. "But I am sure," he said hurriedly, "it won't make you unhappy just to know that it is still an inspiration in my life, and that it always will be, and that love, no matter if"--