“I do care for you, Hal, as one of the best friends I have,” Marjorie protested, raising her brown eyes sorrowfully to Hal’s clouded face. “I know,” Hal rejoined a shade less forcefully. “I value your friendship, Marjorie, more highly than I can say. But friendship’s not what I want from you, dear girl. I love you, truly and forever. I’ve loved you since first you came to Sanford to live. I’d have told you so long ago but you never gave me an opportunity.” Hal paused. He regarded Marjorie wistfully; questioningly. “I—I know it, Hal,” she admitted reluctantly, but with her usual honesty. “I—I haven’t wished you to talk of love to me. There were times last winter”—she stopped in confusion—“when I thought you cared—a little. I—I wasn’t sure.” “Be very sure of it, now.” Hal’s reply was a mixture of tenderness and dejection. “I don’t want you to love me, Hal,” Marjorie cried out almost sharply in her desire to be emphatic. “Last night, after what you said to me on the beach, I couldn’t help but be sure. I—I told Captain of it. I always tell her everything. Captain is sorry I don’t love you. She and General are fond of you. They’d be happy if we were—if we were—to become engaged.” Marjorie spoke the last words hesitatingly. “I’m glad you told your mother. You know how fine I think both General and Captain are.” Hal fought back the hurt look that threatened to invade his face. He gripped the wheel until his knuckles stood out whitely against the sun-tanned brown of his hands. Marjorie caught a glimpse of the unhappiness which sprang straight from her old comrade’s sore heart and into his eyes. “There; I’ve hurt you, Hal! Truly I never meant to!” she exclaimed in quick contrition. “Never mind me.” Hal made a gesture of self-depreciation. “It isn’t your fault because you can’t find it in your heart to love me.” He forced a smile, proudly trying to conceal his own desolation of spirit. Her eyes remorsefully fixed on him the smile did not deceive Marjorie. Hal’s tensity of feature informed her of the weight of the blow she had just dealt him. “Please, please, Hal, forgive me!” she begged with a sudden excess of pained humility. “Forgive you? For what?” Hal bent a fond questioning glance on Marjorie’s troubled face. “For—for—not loving you,” she faltered. “It hurts me dreadfully to know that I must be the one to make you unhappy. Forgive me for seeming to be so hard and unsympathetic about love. I’ve never thought of it for myself. It has always seemed vague and far away; like something not a part of my life. I know the love between Connie and Laurie is wonderful. I can appreciate their devotion to each other. I have the greatest impersonal reverence for love and lovers. But for me life means endeavor and the glory of achievement.”