"How pleasant it was at Miss Deborah's!" Lois began, when Sally had gone out, and she was left alone to see the anxiety in Dick's face. "Nobody has such nice dinners as Miss Deborah and Miss Ruth." Lois's voice was not altogether firm, yet, to her own surprise, she began to feel quite calm, and almost indifferent; she knew why Dick had come, but she did not even then know what her answer would be. "Yes--no--I don't know," he answered. "The fact is, I only seemed to live, Miss Lois, until I could get here to see you to-night. I heard your father say he was going home with Denner, and I thought you'd be alone. So I came. I could not stand any more suspense!" he added, with something like a sob in his voice. Lois's heart gave one jump of fright, and then was quiet. She thought, vaguely, that she was glad he had rushed into it at once, so that she need not keep up that terrible fencing, but she did not speak. She had been sitting in a corner of the leather-covered sofa, and his excitement, as he stood looking at her, made her rise. He grasped her hands in his, wringing them sharply as he spoke, not even noticing her little cry of pain, or her efforts to release herself. "You know I love you,--you know it! Why haven't you let me tell you so? Oh, Lois, how lovely you are to-night,--how happy we shall be!" He kissed one of her hands with a sudden savage passion that frightened her. "Oh--don't," she said, shrinking back, and pulling her hands away from him. He looked at her blankly a moment, but when he spoke again it was gently. "Did I frighten you? I didn't mean to; but you know I love you. That hasn't startled you? Tell me you care for me, Lois." "But--but"--said Lois, sorry and ashamed, "I--don't!" The eager boyish face, so near her own, flushed with sudden anger. "You don't? You must! Why--why, I love you. It cannot be that you really don't--tell me?" But there was no doubt in Lois's mind now. "Indeed, Mr. Forsythe," she said, "indeed, I am so sorry, but I don't--I can't!" A sullen look clouded his handsome face. "I cannot believe it," he said, at length. "You have known that I loved you all summer; you cannot be so cruel as to trifle with me now. You will not treat me so. Oh, I love you!" There was almost a wail in his voice, and he threw himself down in a chair and covered, his face with his hands. Lois did not speak. Her lip curled a little, but it was partly with contempt for herself and her past uncertainty. "I am so sorry, so grieved," she began. But he scarcely heard her, or at least he did not grasp the significance of her words. He began to plead and protest. "We will be so happy if you will only care for me. Just think how different your life will be; you shall have everything in this world you want, Lois." She could not check his torrent of words, and when at last he stopped he had almost convinced himself that she loved him. But she shook her head. "I cannot tell you how distressed I am, but I do not love you."