out you and Claude?"

Her little face grew hard and defiant. She was not to be deceived by
this wounded, unhappy tone. "Well--what?" she asked, guardedly, looking
up at him.

He stooped. His face was curiously convulsed. It frightened her. "Do you
_love_ him?"

Instinctively she took an attitude of defense, rising and pushing back
her chair, to shield herself behind it. "And what if I do?"

"Then, Rosie, you should have told me."

Again the heart=broken cry seemed to her a bit of trickery to get her
confidence. "Told you? How could I tell you? What should I tell you
for?"

"How long have you loved him?"

Her face was set. The shifting opal lights in her eyes were the fires of
her will. She would speak. She would hide nothing. Let the
responsibility be on Claude. Her avowal was like that of a calamity or a
crime. "I've loved him ever since I knew him."

"And how long is that?"

"It will be five months the day after to-morrow."

"Tell me, Rosie. How did it come about?"

She was still defiant. She put it briefly. "I was in the wood above Duck
Rock. He came by. He spoke to me."

"And you loved him from the first?"

She nodded, with the desperate little air he had long ago learned to
recognize.

"Oh, Rosie, tell me this. Do you love him--much?"

She was quite ready with her answer. It was as well the Mastermans
should know. "I'd die for him."

"Would you, Rosie? And what about him?"

Her lip quivered. "Oh, men are not so ready to die for love as women
are."

He leaned toward her, supporting himself with his hands on the desk.
"And you are ready, Rosie! You really--would?"

She thought he looked wild. He terrified her. She shrank back into the
dimness of a mass of foliage. "Oh, what do you mean? What are you asking
me for? Why do you come here? Go away."

"I'll go presently, Rosie. You won't be sorry I've come. I only want you
to tell me all about it. There are reasons why I want to know."

"Then why don't you ask him?" she demanded, passionately. "He's your
brother."

"Because I want you to tell me the story first."

There was such tenderness in his voice that she grew reassured in spite
of her alarm. "What do you want me to say?"

"I want you to say first of all that you know I'm your friend."

"You can't be my friend," she said, suspiciously, "unless you're
Claude's friend, too; and Claude wouldn't own to a friend who tried to
part us."

"I don't want to part you, Rosie. I want to bring