"You're making me awful' unhappy." Her voice trembled. "_I_, Josie?" "Yes. You knew I didn't want to walk home with Roland." "How could I know that?" "I should think you ought to know it, Nat, unless you're blind. Besides, I told you once." "True," he fenced desperately, "but that was a long time ago; and how could I be sure you hadn't changed your mind? Besides, you know, I mustn't monopolise you. If I do...." "Well?" she inquired sweetly as he paused on the lip of a break. "Why, if I do--ah--" "If you're afraid people will talk about us, seeing us so much together, you needn't worry. They're doing that now." "Why, Josie!" "Yes, they are. We've been going together so long, and then suddenly you don't seem to care about--care to be alone with me at all. This is the first chance I've had to talk to you, when there wasn't somebody else round, for I don't know how long. And even now you don't seem glad to see me." "You should _know_ I am...." "You don't act like it." "It's so unexpected," he muttered wretchedly. "You didn't really think I wanted Roland Barnette to go home with me Wednesday night, did you, Nat?" "It seemed so, but ... that's all right. Why shouldn't you?" She turned to him, trembling a little. "Must I tell you, Nat?" "O, no!" he cried in dismay. "Please don't----!" "I see I must," she persisted. "You're so blind. It----" "Josie, don't say anything you'll be sorry for," he entreated wildly. "I can't help it: I've got to. It was--it was because I wanted to be with you.... There!" she gasped, frightened by her own forwardness. "Now I've said it!" Duncan grasped frantically at straws. "But you don't really mean it, Josie: you know you don't," he floundered. "You're just saying that because you--you have such a kind heart and--ah--don't want to hurt me--ah--because----" She stemmed the flood of his protestations with a hand on his arm. "Nat," she said gently, looking up into his face, "would it make you happy to know I really meant it?" "Why--ah--why shouldn't it, Josie?" "Then please believe me, when I say it." "But I do believe it. I..." He stammered and fell still. "Because I do like you, Nat, very much, and--and it's very hard for me to know that folks think I'm pursuing you and that you're trying to avoid me." "Josie!" he exclaimed reproachfully. "Well, that's the way it looks," she affirmed plaintively. "You don't want it to, do you?" "Why, no; of course I don't." "Then why don't you stop it?" She watched his face, her manner coy and yielding. "Nat," she said in a softer voice, "if you like me as well as I like you----" He moved away a pace or two. "Ah, child!" he said, with a feeling that the term was not misapplied, somehow, "you don't know what you're saying." "Yes, I do." She pouted. "I don't believe you... care anything about me." "Oh, Josie, please----" "Well, anyway, you've never told me so." She turned an indignant shoulder to him. "How could I?" "Why couldn't you?"