"Afraid only of interrupting your pleasure," said the young man as he approached her. She retreated a step or two and turned half away. The children began to gather flowers. "I tremble when I hear you coming," said she, timidly. "You are so--" She thought a moment. "Strange," she added, with a smile. She looked up at him curiously. "So very strange to me, sir." "You are strange to me also," he answered. "I have seen no one like you, and I confess to one great fear." "What fear?" "That I may not see you again," the young man answered, with a smile. She stooped to pick a flower. Every movement of her lithe, tall figure, every glance of her eye seemed to tighten her hold upon him. He stood dumb in the spell of her beauty, until she added, sorrowfully, "I am afraid of you, sir--I cannot help it." "I wish I were less terrible," he answered, with a sigh. "I will not see you again." "But--but I love you," he said, simply. "When I am here I am afraid--when I go away I am sorry." Her voice trembled as she spoke. "I have no peace any more. I cannot enjoy books or music. I cannot stay at home. I wander--all day I wander, and the night is long--and I hear the voices of children--like those I have heard here--calling me." There was a note of sympathy in his voice when he answered, "It is the same with me, only it is your voice that I hear." She looked up at him, her face full of wonder. "I think no more of the many things I have to do, but only of one," he said, with feeling. Miss Dunmore seemed not to hear him. "I think only of coming here," he added. She stepped away timidly, and turned and stood straight as the young spruce, looking into his eyes. "I, too, have no more peace," he said, restraining his impulse to go further. "I must leave you--I must not speak to you any more," she answered. "Stay," he pleaded. "I will be silent--I will say not a word unless you bid me speak--but let me look at you." She stood a moment as if thinking. "Do you hear that bird song?" she asked, looking upward. "Yes, it has a merry sound." "It is my answer to you," said she. "Then I am sure you love me." As he came nearer she retreated a little. "I give you everything--everything but myself," said she. "And why not yourself?" Her voice had a plaintive note in it when she said to him, "There are those who need me more." "I offer myself to you and to them also." She stood with averted eyes. In a moment she said, "Tell me what are we to do when those we love die?" "I, too, and all the children of men have that same worry," said he. "There's an old Eastern maxim, 'Love as many as you can, so that death may not make you friendless.'" She walked away slowly. She stopped where the children sat playing and embraced them. "Will you not say that you love me?" the young man urged.