The next day dawned warm and fair. After breakfast John lounged out to the porch, while Phillip went upstairs to see his mother, on whom the excitement of the evening before had told not a little. “Uncle Bob” had not appeared at breakfast, but had sent word that he had a touch of gout and would stay in his room for awhile. The message summoned a wink from Phillip and caused Margaret to smile demurely behind the coffee urn.

John lighted a cigar and seated himself in the sun with his back against one of the ferocious lions, one knee well up under his chin and his heel kicking idly at the granite block. Before him the driveway swept sloping away invitingly toward the park gate. He wondered whether Margaret would go for a stroll with him if he penetrated to the kitchen regions and asked her. He had made up his mind to go in search of her, when footsteps sounded behind him and Margaret appeared in the doorway. He tossed away his cigar and jumped to his feet.

“Won’t you come out?” he begged. “It’s so nice here in the sun.” She nodded smilingly, disappeared, and in a moment came out with a little cape about her shoulders. John pulled forward a chair, but she took a seat on the step and he went back to his lion. For awhile they talked of the dance, of the townsfolk, of gout-ridden “Uncle Bob,” of Virginia weather, and finally of Cambridge and the approaching term.

“And in June you’re all through college?” asked Margaret. “Are you sorry?”

“Yes, I think so. I’m glad that I’m through with it and sorry I’ve got to go away. One gets to know so many good fellows, and grows to like Cambridge so well that he rather hates to pack up for good. My roommate—his name’s Meadowcamp; perhaps Phil has spoken of him? After he finished last year he began a graduate course. I’ve always told him that it was because he was too lazy to move away. But now, just lately, I’ve begun to think that it was chiefly because Davy hated to leave college; a fellow gets so used to it all in the four years. I know that I shall feel rather lost and out of it when September comes and I find I’m not back in Cambridge.” He paused and looked thoughtfully across the lawn. “Davy—Meadowcamp, you know—wants me to take a graduate course, and I’m almost tempted to do it. But—well, there would be little use in it. It isn’t as though I was preparing myself for something definite, you see. I suppose I could study law. That’s a good excuse for staying there; but I haven’t the slightest desire to become a lawyer. I’d never win a case, I know.”

“What are you going to be?” Margaret asked. John smiled, then frowned and gave a shrug.

“That’s the question,” he answered. “My father would like me to take hold of his business with him. He makes wire nails in an immense ugly brick building that covers acres of ground in Worcester. Perhaps I shall. I don’t like it, though. Besides, my father isn’t really as keen about it as he used to be. A few years ago he owned the whole thing himself and thought of nothing else but wire nails—almost lived in his office and just about ruined his health; he’s been abroad now for three years as a result. Then the trust came along and gobbled up the factory. Father’s vice-president of the trust now and makes much more money than he used to; but he isn’t specially happy and he has rather lost interest. It isn’t the same as being the whole thing yourself, you see, Miss Ryerson. And I don’t believe he’d feel very badly if I balked at wire nails.”

“But what do you want to be?” Margaret leaned forward, her chin in her hand, and observed him curiously.

“I don’t know,” replied John vexedly. “I wish I did. I’ve often wished that we had just enough money to live on quietly; then, I guess, I’d have to be something, and I should probably know what. Just now it looks as though I should be a loafer. Do you like loafers, Miss Ryerson?”

Margaret shook her head.

“Then I shan’t be one,” he said, smilingly. “I——” He stopped and studied his hands for a moment. “When I said I don’t know what I want to be I wasn’t quite telling the truth. I do know what I want to be and what I want to do. Only it seems so idiotic that I’m rather ashamed to tell you.” He looked up for encouragement and found it in the little grave smile she gave.

“Well, since I came down here and have seen this country, and seen the jolly, quiet, healthful sort of life you Virginians lead, I—I’ve wanted to come here, too, and live among these hills and fields. I’d like to buy land here and farm it, and ride and hunt and shoot now and then, and wear out my old clothes, and live quietly and contentedly and respectably all my life and die of gout at a good old age.”

Margaret laughed quietly and shook her head. “I’m glad you like our country and the way we live,” she said gravely, “but I don’t think it would do for you. You’d like it well enough at first, I don’t doubt; but then you’d get tired of our humdrum life and tired of farming, and you’d long to get back to the world you know. Besides, there’s more in farming than appears on the surface, Mr. North, and I fear you couldn’t learn it in a year, or even five.”

“I know that. And when I said farming I was thinking of cattle.”

“But what I said of farming is just as true of cattle. I’m afraid it wouldn’t pay.”

“But I wouldn’t care a great deal if it didn’t. It would be an occupation. Lots of occupations don’t pay.”

“You’d be just a kind of idler, then, wouldn’t you? I mean, you wouldn’t be accomplishing anything for yourself or for any one else. It’s so easy to do things that don’t pay and that lead to nothing.”

“You’re terribly discouraging,” laughed John, more than half vexed. “For that matter, perhaps it would pay. I could get a good overseer and let him do the managing.”

“While you did the riding and shooting and hunting and acquired the gout?” She shook her head. “That wouldn’t do.”

“Well,” he answered, “I hadn’t thought very seriously of trying it, Miss Ryerson, but now—I believe I’ll do it if only to show you that I can.”

“I should be sorry to have anything I’ve said lead you into losing your money, Mr. North. And so I’ll take everything back. You could do it beautifully; being a Northerner, you would, of course, understand our way of doing things; having had a good college education you would, naturally, be thoroughly fitted to buy and sell cattle at a profit; and good overseers are found everywhere; and with a good overseer—— But, dear me, what am I saying? Without a good overseer, Mr. North, there is not the least doubt in the world but that you’d become immensely wealthy in a very short time—say two or three years.”

She still leaned with chin in palm, and the little smiling, half-mocking expression in the warm brown eyes tempted John to do rash things. With an effort he laughed lightly.

“You’re right, of course,” he said. “I’m an idiot to think of such things. And it is only kindness, I know, that prompts you to show me my absolute incapacity and impracticability. Only—well, it’s a bit jarring to my vanity.”

“That’s not kind,” she answered. “I’ve said nothing about incapacity. I know you’re not incapable; Phil has told us enough about you to prove that, Mr. North. And I reckon you’re very practical. Maybe you could come here and buy land and make it pay you; I think you could if any Northerner could. There,” she smiled, “does your vanity feel better?”

“Much, thank you.”

“But,” she continued, serious again, “I don’t think even you could do it. We’re different from you people; we do things differently; we’re slower and easier-going; I reckon we’re what you say we are—shiftless.”

John strove to expostulate, but she went on:

“But it’s our way—the way we were taught and brought up and the way we’re used to. And you’d have trouble with your hands, too. Negroes aren’t what they were once; they’re shiftless and lazy, and won’t work except when they have to—at least, that’s true of the negroes around here. Good overseers are hard to find, Mr. North, and there aren’t many at the best. If you could find one, perhaps—— But I wouldn’t make the experiment.”

“Thank you. I’ve no doubt but that what you say is true; I’m sure you must know if any one does. Although,” he added, “it sounds odd to hear you talking about these things so intimately.”

“I suppose it does, but I’ve learned them; and I’ve seen one or two experiments of the sort you speak of tried hereabouts. At least, you must acknowledge that I am disinterested, Mr. North. I might have encouraged you and then sold you part of Elaine. You know it is for sale?”

“Yes,” answered John, “I know. It’s a shame, Miss Ryerson. I shouldn’t think you could stand the thought of—of parting with it.”

“I can’t. And so I don’t think of it—much.”

“But—wouldn’t it be possible to do something else? Couldn’t you lease it?”

“We might, but that would only be putting off the inevitable. I reckon you don’t know how poor we are, Mr. North,” she said with a little troubled smile. “I think I’d like to tell you. Even mamma doesn’t know—quite.”

“I shall feel honoured, Miss Ryerson,” he answered earnestly. “But if it—well, if it hurts to talk about it, please don’t.”

“I think it would do me good to tell some one,” she answered gravely. “And since we’ve already made a sort of—family counselor of you, Mr. North, I know you won’t mind playing the part of a father confessor, too. Your kindness to Phil and to us——”

“Please don’t say anything more about that, Miss Ryerson,” John pleaded. “I feel like a hypocrite whenever you mention my services. If you only knew how very little I’ve done—scarcely anything, really—and what a pleasure that little has been, you’d understand that all the obligation is on my part.”

Margaret shook her head again as one unconvinced.

“I won’t speak of it if you don’t wish it,” she said softly, “but I shall always remember it and shall always be very, very grateful.” She turned away from him, clasped her hands over one knee and looked off across the sloping lawn and meadow. Then: “I fear, though, you don’t believe very strongly in our—in my gratitude after—after my rudeness to you.” Her head was turned farther away until he could see only one cheek, on which the colour came and went as she spoke.

“Rudeness!” he exclaimed. “Great heavens, please don’t say that! You weren’t rude enough! You——”

“I behaved very childishly,” she continued, without, however, turning toward him. “I want to ask your pardon and I want you to know that—that my behaviour didn’t mean that I wasn’t grateful to you all the time. We—we’re rather barbarians down here, Mr. North, and have tempers!”

“Miss Ryerson! Margaret! I beg your pardon,” he caught himself up. “But please don’t talk about asking my pardon. I ought to have asked yours long ago! I do now! I behaved like a brute that day. I know I did. But—but won’t you please believe that I didn’t mean any disrespect? You must believe that! Won’t you?”

“Yes,” she answered instantly. “I didn’t believe otherwise. And you—and Phil—were right in not wanting me to ride Cardinal back. I don’t know what had gotten into me; I’m not always so mean and stubborn. And—and you—Phil says you rode breakneck down the hill after me. You might have been killed!” There was a little pause, during which Margaret continued to watch her interlacing fingers, and John, rather pale of face, looked hungrily at the rounded cheek on which the sun threw little flecks of light. “Thank you for that,” she added softly. “And forgive me for my rudeness at—at what was—I understood it afterward, you see—just a sort of joke.”

“Joke!” breathed John. He leaned forward and laid one hand over her fingers. They ceased their moving and she turned toward him with wide, startled eyes. “Margaret,” he said softly, “don’t thank me for anything, please. I don’t deserve it. I behaved like a brute! I hurt you when you were nervous, upset, after that danger. Why,” he went on with a sudden drop of his voice which trembled like the hands imprisoned under his own, “why, rather than hurt you, Margaret, I’d—I’d do anything in the world!”

She turned her face away with a slow closing of her eyes, and strove to draw her hands from beneath his.

“I—I—please——”

“And don’t forgive me because you think it was all a joke, Margaret. It wasn’t, not a bit of it, dear! I kissed your hand because—because I couldn’t help kissing the poor, bruised little thing! I said I loved you because it was God’s truth, Margaret! I do love you—then—before that—now—always! How much, how dearly, I haven’t words to say! I was mean, brutal, if you like, dear, but I wasn’t joking.”

He ended with a little break in his voice. His hand slipped away from hers.

“Now,” he added, pale and half fearful, “you may forgive me—if you can.”

For many moments Margaret sat motionless, her hands still loosely clasped, her face averted. John waited anxiously, breathing hard, possessed with an almost fierce exultation for that he had proclaimed himself her lover and that, whatever happened, no longer could she consider him as merely her brother’s friend, an acquaintance to be smiled upon politely and dismissed from her thoughts. Whether she sent him away or bade him remain, he was her lover, a factor in her life. Whether she ever cared for him or not, at least she could never forget him; as long as she lived the mention of his name must summon recollection. All this would be but poor consolation for losing her, but now, as he waited for her to speak, he found a fierce comfort in the knowledge that already it was beyond her power to put him entirely from her life.

When at length she turned her face to him it was paler than his own and the little smile that quivered about the lips was one of pain. Her eyes met his bravely, infinitely tender. John read his answer and his heart sank; but he gave back her smile.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

John nodded and looked away. He wanted to say something, but the right words would not come; he could only smile. It came to him with a shock that he had allowed himself to hope too much; that, despite pretense of reckoning with possible disappointment, he had not, in reality, considered it. The sunlit world suddenly looked sickeningly blank. Perhaps Margaret read something of all this in his expression. When she spoke again her voice held pain and regret.

“There’s so much I’d like to say,” she murmured. “But—I don’t know how. I wish—I want you to believe that I am sorry, more sorry than I can tell you. And I thank you very, very much for the honour, for it is an honour that a woman may be proud of, Mr. North. Oh, tell me this, please: have I been to blame?”

“To blame! You!”

“I mean have I done anything, said anything to make you think—that I might—care for you?”

“Great heavens, no!” John protested. “It has been all my fault. But, no, not a fault; I won’t call it that. It would have been a fault not to have loved you. I—I’ve made a mistake in telling you, that is all, Miss Ryerson. Please don’t think of it any more; don’t let it trouble you. It—it’ll be all right.”

“Will it?” she asked wistfully. “I hope so, oh, I do hope so! I never thought—if I had suspected for a moment, I would have done something—gone away——”

“It would have been too late,” said John gravely. “You see, the mischief was already done. Phil had your picture in his room; I saw it away last fall. Then he talked of you often; read little bits sometimes from your letters; until I seemed to almost know you. Then your own letter came. Of course it was nothing—but—— Oh, I am such an ass, Miss Ryerson! And then, when I came and saw you that day there at the station—well, it just clinched everything! It was queer; it didn’t seem as though I was meeting you for the first time. You were just what I had pictured you, only a hundred times better, lovelier, sweeter!” He paused, felt absent-mindedly for his pipe and placed it in his mouth. Then he took it out, put it back in his pocket, and went on more lightly.

“I didn’t mean to tell you to-day—perhaps not at all before I went. But I couldn’t bear to let you think I was cad enough to do that as a joke. Perhaps—if I had waited? If I had kept silent until spring or even summer——?”

Margaret shook her head.

“No; it would have been the same. I’m glad you spoke now before—before—— Oh, it is better, isn’t it, to have the—the mistake corrected now?”

“I suppose so,” he answered without conviction. “Well——”

He broke off and sat staring across the fields, the smile still on his face, and for a long minute there was silence between them. Margaret observed him with an indefinable expression in her dark eyes; there was regret there, and tenderness, and wonder.

“I wish——” she began.

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing.” And then, after another little pause, “But maybe you’d like to know it. I wish—I cared for you.”

“You wish that?” he cried with a sudden note of hope in his voice. “Then—then——!”

“No, no, no! Don’t misunderstand me, please! I do wish that; yes. I would rather please you than give you pain. If I did care for you I should be glad—and proud to tell you so—and proud of your—love. But I don’t—not in the way you want me to.”

“It is only pity,” he said sadly.

“Yes.... I don’t know....”

“But I will wait! I could—I could try to make you care for me—that way! Margaret! May I—try?”

“Oh, you will mistake what I mean,” she cried regretfully. “Listen; perhaps I can make you understand. When you spoke of coming here to live, and when I tried to discourage you, I was hoping that you’d pay no heed to me and that you would come in spite of all I said. I thought it would be so nice to have you here—coming to see us—and all. And Phil likes you so much, and mamma, too. You are so big and capable and—and—— Don’t you see, it was just selfishness? I wanted you for a friend—some one I could look to for help and advice in my miserable little quandaries. I—I liked you; that is all.”

“I see.” Presently:

“Yes, I’m glad you told me that; very glad. Please keep right on liking me, if you can. And I—” he turned, facing her with a sudden rigid setting of his jaws and a narrowing of his dark gray eyes, “I’m going to keep on loving you, you know,” he said almost fiercely. “You can’t help that. And you needn’t forbid me,” he added, as she made a gesture of dissent. “It’s beyond you. And I’m not going to stop hoping until you’re—married to some one else. You can’t forbid that, either!”

“But I must! You mustn’t! Please—please——”

“Do you mean that you could never care for me—under any circumstances—no matter what happened?”

“I—oh, how can I tell what I could do or might do?” she cried. “Only—I feel that it is hopeless—useless!”

“Then—then there is some one else, after all?” he asked dully.

“You have been very patient and kind to me,” she replied, “and I will answer that, although you have no right——”

“I know,” he interrupted. “I have no right. Don’t answer it!”

“I shall; and—there is no one else; no one at all.”

Within the house they heard Phillip’s voice calling them.

“Thank you,” said John. “And now, will you do me one more favour! Will you promise that should you ever grow to care for me you will tell me?”

“Tell you!” she repeated in surprise. “But how could I do that?”

“You could.”

“But if I ever did care, I think you’d know it without my telling you,” she said with a little smile.

He shook his head.

“I might not. I should be afraid to risk it again.”

“But you—you might have grown to—not to care,” she objected. Again he shook his head.

“No. I shall keep on caring. You are certain that you will never love me; so the risk is slight. Will you take it? Will you promise?”

“Hello, you lazy folks!” Phillip stood laughing out upon them from the doorway. “Didn’t you hear me yelling like the Bull of—What-do-you-call-it?”

“We wanted to make you hunt us, Phil,” answered Margaret lightly. “Exercise is beneficial, dear.”

“Exercise! Well, that sounds well coming from a person who has been sitting on the porch all morning,” Phillip replied scathingly. Margaret arose and moved toward the door. John followed her. Phillip observed them speculatively.

“Great Scott!” he told himself, “I believe John’s been making love to Margey! Or else they’ve had a quarrel.”

At the doorway John laid his hand lightly on Margaret’s arm. She stopped on the threshold and turned to him.

“You promise?” he asked softly.

She hesitated and dropped her eyes. Then:

“Yes,” she answered.

He stood and watched her lay aside her cape and disappear into the drawing-room. When he turned again toward Phillip he heard the beat of hoofs on the drive.

“Here comes Colonel Brownell,” said Phillip. The Colonel trotted up to the portico and bowed courteously, holding out a buff-coloured envelope.

“Morning, Phil; morning, Mr. North. A telegram for you, sir. Saw it in the post-office, sir, and took the liberty of fetching it along to you.”

John thanked him and took it.

“You’ll stay for dinner, Colonel?” asked Phillip.

“Thank you, Phil; not to-day. I’m on my way over to Prentiss. Good-day, good-day, sir!” The Colonel trotted off, a gallant figure on his little black mare, and John opened his message.

“Nothing wrong, is there, John?” asked Phillip anxiously.

“No, nothing wrong,” answered John, and he dropped the telegram into his pocket. “But I’m sorry to say, Phil, I’ll have to leave you in the morning.”