am so fond of you,
Giff!"

Here the young man smiled a little bitterly. Friendship separated them as
inexorably as though it had been hate!

"And," the girl went on, gaining confidence as she spoke, for argument
cleared the air of sentiment, in which she felt as awkward as she was
unkind, "and you know there are a good many things you don't like in me;
you think I have lots of faults,--you know you do."

"I suppose I do, in a way," he acknowledged; "but if I didn't love you so
much, Lois, I would not notice them."

Lois held her head a little higher, but did not speak. He watched her
twist her fingers nervously together; she had forgotten to take off the
little ring of braided grass.

"I am so sorry, Giff," she said, to break the silence,--"oh, so sorry.
I--I can't forgive myself."

"There is nothing to forgive," he answered gently; "and you must not
distress yourself by thinking that I am unhappy. I am better, Lois, yes,
and happier, because I love you. It shall be an inspiration to me all my
life, even if you should forget all about me. But I want you to make me
one promise, will you?"

She hesitated. "If I can, Giff;" and then, with sudden trustfulness, she
added, "Yes, I will. What is it?"

She had risen, and was standing on the step above him. He looked at her
nervous little hands a moment, but did not touch them, and then he said,
"If the time ever comes when you can love me, tell me so. I ask you this,
Lois, because I cannot bear to distress you again by speaking words of
love you do not want to hear, and yet I can't help hoping; and I shall
always love you, but it shall be in silence. So if the day ever does come
when you can love me, promise to tell me."

"Oh, yes," she said, glad to grant something. "But, Gifford, dear, it
will never come; I must say that now."

"But you promise?"

"Yes," she answered, soberly. "I promise."

He looked at her steadily a moment. "God bless you, dear," he said.

"Oh, Gifford!" cried the girl, and with a sudden impulse she stooped and
kissed his forehead; then, half frightened at what she had done, but not
yet regretting it, she brushed past him, and went swiftly up the path to
the rectory.

The young man stood quite still a moment, with reverent head bent as
though he had received a benediction, and then turned and followed her.

CHAPTER III.

Lois Howe's mind was in a strange tumult that night; the subtile thrill,
which is neither pain nor pride, and