you are very cruel to me." The voice was childishly broken
and muffled. He looked down at her, slowly realising that it was a child
he still was dealing with--a child with a child's innocence, repelled by
the graver phase of love, unresponsive to the deeper emotions,
bewildered by the glimpse of the mature role his attitude had compelled
her to accept. That she already had reached that mile-stone and, for a
moment, had turned involuntarily to look back and find her childhood
already behind her, frightened her.

Thinking, perhaps, of his own years, and of what lay behind him, he
sighed and looked out over the waste of moorland where the Atlantic was
battering the sands of Surf Point. Then his patient gaze shifted to the
east, and he saw the surface of Sky Pond, blue as the eyes of the girl
who lay crouching in the cushioned corner of the swinging seat, small
hands clinched over the handkerchief--a limp bit of stuff damp with her
tears.

"There is one thing," he said, "that we mustn't do--cry about it--must
we, Eileen?"

"No-o."

"Certainly not. Because there is nothing to make either of us unhappy;
is there?"

"Oh-h, no."

"Exactly. So we're not going to be unhappy; not one bit. First because
we love each other, anyway; don't we?"

"Y-yes."

"Of course we do. And now, just because I happen to love you in that way
and also in a different sort of way, in addition to that way, why, it's
nothing for anybody to cry about it; is it, Eileen?"

"No. . . . No, it is not. . . . But I c-can't help it."

"Oh, but you're going to help it, aren't you?"

"I--I hope so."

He was silent; and presently she said: "I--the reason of it--my
crying--is b-b-because I don't wish you to be unhappy."

"But, dear, dear little girl, I am not!"

"Really?"

"No, indeed! Why should I be? You do love me; don't you?"

"You know I do."

"But not in _that_ way."

"N-no; not in _that_ way. . . . I w-wish I did."

A thrill passed through him; after a moment he relaxed and leaned
forward, his chin resting on his clinched hands: "Then let us go back to
the old footing, Eileen."

"Can we?"

"Yes, we can; and we will--back to the old footing--when nothing of
deeper sentiment disturbed us. . . . It was my fault, little girl. Some
day you will understand that it was not a wholly selfish fault--because
I believed--perhaps only dreamed--that I could make you happier by
loving you in--both ways. That is all; it is your happiness--our
h