nd each other so well, as a rule, but there is something you
will never understand, I am afraid."

"That is just what I wish you would explain," replied the young girl,
unmoved.

"Are you in earnest?" Guido asked, suddenly turning his face to her.

"Of course. We are such good friends that it is a pity there should ever
be the least little bit of misunderstanding between us."

"You talk about it very philosophically!"

"About what?" She had felt that she must make him lose patience, and she
succeeded.

"After all, I am a man," he said rather hoarsely. "Do you suppose it is
possible for me to see you day after day, to talk with you day after
day, to be alone with you day after day, as I am, to hear your voice, to
touch your hand--and to be satisfied with friendship?"

"How should I know?" Cecilia asked thoughtfully. "I have never known any
one as well as I know you. I never liked anyone else well enough," she
added after an instant.

A very faint colour rose in her cheeks, for she was afraid that she had
been too forward.

"Yes. I am sure of that," he said. "But you never feel that mere liking
is turning into something stronger, and that friendship is changing into
love. You never will!"

She said nothing, but looked at him steadily while he looked away from
her, absorbed in his own thought and expecting no answer. When at last
he felt her eyes on him, he turned quickly with a start of surprise,
catching his breath, and speaking incoherently.

"You do not mean to tell me--you are not----"

Again her lips parted and she smiled at his wonder.

"Why not?" she asked, at last.

"You love me? You?" He could not believe his ears.

"Why not?" she asked again, but so low that he could hardly hear the
words.

He turned half round, as he sat, and covered her crossed hands with his,
and for a while neither spoke. He was supremely happy; she was convinced
that she ought to be, and that she therefore believed that she was, and
that her happiness was consequently real.

But when she heard his voice, she knew, in spite of all, that she did
not feel what he felt, even in the smallest degree, and there was a
doubt which she had not anticipated, and which she at once faced in her
heart with every argument she could use. She must have done right, it
was absolutely necessary that what she had done should be right, now
that it was too late to undo it. The mere suggestion that it might turn
out to be a mistake was awful.