ted. We could go to town occasionally and see things.
Moreover, I could take care of you, and you've never been taken care of.
I don't think you'd ever be sorry, Rosemary, even though you don't love
me."

"I never said I didn't love you," the girl faltered. Her eyes were
downcast and the colour was burning upon her pale face.

"Yes, you did--up on the hill. Don't you remember?"

"I--I wasn't telling the truth," she confessed. "I've--I've always----"

"Rosemary!"

She looked at him with brimming eyes. "What you've done, or what you may
do, doesn't make any difference. It never could. If--if it depends at
all on--on the other person, I don't think--it's love."

[Sidenote: Her Very Own]

In an instant his arms were around her, and she was crying happily upon
his shoulder. "Dear, my dear! And you cared all the time?"

"All the time," she sobbed.

"What a brute I was! How I must have hurt you!"

"You couldn't help it. You didn't mean to hurt me."

"No, of course not, but, none the less I did it. I'll spend the rest of
my life trying to make up for it, dear, if you'll let me."

It flashed upon Rosemary that this was not at all like the impassioned
love-making to which she had been an unwilling witness, but, none the
less, it was sweet, and it was her very own. He wanted her, and merely
to be wanted, anywhere, gives a certain amount of satisfaction.

"Kiss me, dear," Rosemary put up her trembling lips, answering to him
with every fibre of body and soul.

"Don't cry, dear girl, please don't! I want to make you happy."

Rosemary released herself, wiped her eyes upon a coarse handkerchief,
then asked the inevitable question:

"Will she care?"

"No, she'll be glad. Mother will too."

[Sidenote: A Promise]

"Grandmother won't," she laughed, hysterically, "nor Aunt Matilda."

"Never mind them. You've considered them all your life, now it's your
turn."

"It doesn't seem that I deserve it," whispered Rosemary, with touching
humility. "I've never been happy, except for a little while this Spring,
and now----."

"And now," he said, taking her into his arms again, "you're going to be
happy all the rest of your life, if I can make you so. If I don't you'll
tell me, won't you?"

"I can't promise," she murmured, shyly, to his coat sleeve. "I must go
now, it's getting late."

"Not until you've told me when you'll marry me. To-morrow?"

"Oh, no!" cried Rosemary. "Not to-morrow."

"Why not?"

"It's--it's too