er to think how it might have been if
another than Paul had stood in this relation toward herself.

The young man did not quite have his own way, however. His father went
down to Mishaumok on one of the three days, and left him in charge at
the mills; and there were people to see, and arrangements to make; but
some part of each day he did manage to devote to Faith, and they had
walking and driving together, and every night Paul stayed to tea at
Cross Corners.

On the last evening, they sat together, by the hillside door, in the
summer parlor.

"Faithie," said Paul, a little suddenly, "there is something you must do
for me--do you know?"

"What is it?" asked Faith, quite calmly.

"You must wear this, now, and keep the forget-me-not for a guard."

He held her hand, that wore the ring, in one of his, and there was a
flash of diamonds as he brought the other toward it.

Then Faith gave a quick, strange cry.

"I can't! I can't! Oh, Paul! don't ask me!" And her hand was drawn from
the clasp of his, and her face was hidden in both her own.

Paul drew back--hurt, silent.

"If I could only wait!" she murmured. "I don't dare, yet!"

She could wear the forget-me-not, as she wore the memory of all their
long young friendship, it belonged to the past; but this definite pledge
for the future--these diamonds!

"Do you not quite belong to me, even yet?" asked Paul, with a
resentment, yet a loving and patient one, in his voice.

"I told you," said Faith, "that I would try--to be to you as you wish;
but Paul! if I couldn't be so, truly?--I don't know why I feel so
uncertain. Perhaps it is because you care for me too much. Your thought
for me is so great, that mine, when I look at it, never seems worthy."

Paul was a man. He could not sue, too cringingly, even for Faith
Gartney's love.

"And I told you, Faith, that I was satisfied to be allowed to love you.
That you should love me a little, and let it grow to more. But if it is
not love at all--if I frighten you, and repel you--I have no wish to
make you unhappy. I must let you go. And yet--oh, Faith!" he cried--the
sternness all gone, and only the wild love sweeping through his heart,
and driving wild words before it--"it can't be that it is no love, after
all! It would be too cruel!"

At those words, "I must let you go," spoken apparently with calmness, as
if it could be done, Faith felt a bound of freedom in her soul. If he
would let her go, and care for her in the