"You'd laugh at me as long as you live if I should tell you whom I have dared to love without ever daring to confess." His face was averted as he said this. "You poor fellow," said Phillida, "you are always doubtful of yourself. Come, I think you had better tell me; may be I can encourage you, and it will give me something to think about and keep away thoughts that I don't wish to think." Philip drew a long breath and then said slowly and with a firm voice, but with his eyes on the window fastenings: "The woman I love and have loved for a long time is my Cousin Phillida." "You are joking, Philip," said Phillida, but her voice died as she spoke. "Yes," said Philip, in his old desponding tone, "I knew it would seem ridiculous to you. That's why I never spoke of it before." He looked out of the window in silence, and presently became aware that Phillida was weeping. "O God! let me die," she murmured in a broken voice. "I am doomed to work only misery in the world. Isn't it enough to have blighted the happiness of Charley, whom I loved and still love in spite of myself? Must I also plunge Philip into misery who has been more than a brother to me? If I could only die and escape from this wretched life before I do any further harm." "I am sorry that I said anything, Phillida. Forget it. Forget it, please." He said in an alarmed voice, rising as he spoke. "Cousin," said Phillida, "you are the best friend I have. But you _must not_ love me. There is nothing left for me. Nothing--but to die. Good-by." That evening Philip did not appear at dinner and his mother sent to inquire the reason. "Mr. Philip says he has a headache, and will not come down," said the maid on her return. After dinner the mother sought his room with a cup of coffee and a bit of toast. Philip was lying on the lounge in his book-room with the gas turned low. "What's the matter, Philip? Is your throat sore? Are there any signs of diphtheria?" demanded his mother anxiously. "No, I am all right. A little out of sorts. Only just let me be quiet." "Has anything gone wrong?" "Nothing more than common." "Something has worried you. Now, Philip, I can see plainly that you are worrying about Phillida. Why don't you speak your mind if you care for her, and have it over with?" "It is over with, mother," said Philip. "And she refused you?" said Mrs. Gouverneur, with rising indignation, for she thought it rather a descent for Philip to offer himself to Phillida or to anybody else. "No, she didn't refuse me. I didn't formally offer myself. But I let her know how I felt toward her. She'll never accept me." "May be she will," said the mother. "Girls don't like to accept at the first hint." "No, she was kind and even affectionate with me, and broke her heart over my confession that I loved her, so that I'm afraid I have done her a great deal of harm." "How do you know she will never accept you, you faint-hearted boy?"