“I want to talk business,” said John. He swung himself onto the library table and took one knee into his hands. “I’m not keeping you from any of those household duties with which you are wearing your young life away?”

Margaret shook her head. “I have nothing to do until it is time for dinner. Do you know I fear I am getting tired of being a housekeeper.” She looked about her in mock alarm. “Ever since I came back I have been good for nothing. I suppose it was that month of idleness. For the first time in my life I wish I were a man. I’d like to travel, travel for—oh, for months and months!”

“Where?” he asked.

“Anywhere—everywhere! Just go about and see things and not care when I arrived or where I arrived.” She laughed softly. “There, that’s my first revolt against my lot. And it shall be my last. I’m glad mamma didn’t hear me. She’d be terribly alarmed and worried.”

“Mrs. Ryerson is comfortable this morning?” asked John.

“Yes; she feels quite bright.” After a moment, “Do you always make mothers fall in love with you, Mr. North?” she asked.

“Always,” he answered very gravely. “It’s my foxy way. You see, Miss Ryerson, most daughters are dutiful enough to follow their mothers’ example.”

“Oh,” said Margaret, “I see.” She avoided his glance and dropped into the high-backed, old-fashioned chair by the front window. Below her a bed of many-hued pansies trembled and nodded drowsily in the breeze. The library was dark and quiet. The open windows admitted the fragrant air from the garden, and the musty, bookish smell that usually pervaded the room was gone. “And the business?” asked Margaret. John started.

“Oh, yes, the business,” he said. “It’s this. When I was here at Christmas time I told you that I wanted to try my hand at making a living down here in Virginia. You weren’t very encouraging, if you remember, but—well, as I said once before, I was born hopeful. And so I still want to try it. You told me then that you would be glad to have me for a neighbour—and friend. Have you changed your mind?”

“No,” answered Margaret. “But do you mean that you are thinking of settling around here somewhere?”

“That’s my idea. In fact, I am thinking of buying from you.”

“Oh!” Margaret’s eyes grew wide. “But——”

“The thing sounds rather brutal, I know,” he went on, “but if Elaine must be sold—and, as far as I’ve heard, it’s still on the market—it occurs to me that possibly you’d just as lief I would have it as the next one. Am I right, Miss Ryerson?”

“Yes; I’d far rather it went to you. Only, I fear—I don’t think I told you, did I, that some one holds an option on it?”

John shook his head, but didn’t look worried.

“Of course, they may not buy,” she continued, “but Mr. Corliss seems quite certain that they will. Oh, I’m so sorry! I wish it was going to be you, Mr. North. I—we all—would so much rather it went to a friend, you see.”

“But perhaps the parties won’t buy,” said John cheerfully. “Or maybe they’d be willing to sell to me at an advance. Corliss didn’t say who—er—who they are?”

“No, he didn’t. But I reckon they’re Northerners.” There was a trace of displeasure in her voice, and John smiled.

“Well, then, if I should come to you and tell you that I was ready to buy the place, fifteen hundred acres, without the home farm here, you’d sell to me? If the other people were out of it, I mean?”

“Yes; gladly.”

“Thank you. I fancy I shall be around some day with that announcement,” he said smilingly.

She looked across at him speculatively.

“I’ve changed my mind about you,” she said finally.

“As to——” For an instant he dared hope.

“As to your not making a success of it. I think you could.”

“Why? What makes you think so?” he asked. She shook her head.

“I don’t know; I just think so.”

“Well, I hope you’re right. For I mean to have the place if I can. I’m leaving to-morrow, and I shall see Corliss and find out about it at once.”

“Must you go to-morrow?” she asked, her eyes on the pansies. “Couldn’t you telegraph just as well?”

“Oh, I was going anyhow, you know,” he answered lightly. “I’ve stayed long enough—longer, in fact, than I agreed to—with myself, I mean,” he added, in response to her look of surprise. There was a moment of silence. Then he went on with a trace of awkwardness:

“I told Phil awhile ago that there was only one thing that could make me disregard the decencies and stay on here longer.”

She looked at him questioningly.

“One thing?”

“Yes.”

“Why, what is that?”

He shook his head.

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you. I thought that maybe you’d be able to guess.”

“Oh,” she murmured, almost under her breath. Her face grew rosy as an understanding of his meaning came to her and she turned her eyes again to the pansies.

“But I also told him,” John continued with an attempt at nonchalance, wishing to spare her embarrassment, “that that one thing was not at all likely to happen. So—so I’m not disappointed, you see, Miss Ryerson.”

There was a moment of silence. Then:

“But it might.” As soon as the words were uttered she regretted them and arose from her chair in a sudden panic. There was no reply. She wondered what he was thinking, what his face said. The stillness grew and grew. She longed intensely to look around, yet could not have done so had life itself depended upon it. Then, when she had begun to think he was no longer there—

“You mean——?” he asked in low tones that, she thought, trembled a little.

She stared hard at the fluttering blossoms beneath the casement and moistened her lips.

“Why, I mean that if you didn’t expect it to happen, it—it might, mightn’t it?” She gave a little nervous laugh. “You know they say it’s the unexpected that always happens.”

“Oh.... Yes.... I see.” His tone spoke eloquently of disappointment. She was sorry and—yes, disappointed, too. She turned away from the window after a moment and was very glad that the room was so dim; her cheeks were afire.

“I must go now and see about dinner,” she said evenly.

“Well——” But he got no further, nor did she move toward the door. Instead:

“You really must leave to-morrow?” she asked politely.

“Yes; I must, really. You see—the unexpected isn’t going to happen, after all.” He smiled across at her.

“But—perhaps the unexpected is too—too impossible!”

“Yes; I fear it is,” he answered dejectedly.

“Oh, I didn’t mean that!” she cried, and then stopped in a sudden tumult of embarrassment.

“Thank you; but I fear it’s true, just the same. The unexpected is one of those wonderful things that are too good to happen—except in books.” He swung himself off the table, still smiling. “But I’m keeping you?”

“No.” She shook her head almost impatiently and stood there interlacing her slim fingers in the way he knew so well. Suddenly she raised her eyes to his and asked abruptly:

“Do you still remember the promise you—the promise I made you?” she asked. The eyes looked large and fearful and her face was pale.

“Yes,” he answered, wonderingly.

“And would you mind repeating it?”

“You promised that if you ever grew to—care for me you would tell me,” he responded.

“Yes.”

“Well?” he asked. “And now?”

“And now I—I——” She paused and lowered her eyes.

“I see,” he said gravely. “You want me to absolve you from it? I know; it was an absurd thing to ask of you. I had no business doing it. I understand that now, Margaret. That is what you are trying to tell me, isn’t it?”

“No,” she said softly.

“You—you don’t want me to let you off?” he cried amazedly, gladly. She shook her head silently.

“And—and if the time ever should come, Margaret, you will tell me? You still promise that?”

“Yes.” The reply was low, scarce a whisper, but he heard it. A great wondering delight swayed him. He moved impulsively toward her, but stopped doubtfully.

Through the open windows, into the dim, silent room, floated the melody of spring and of love; the exquisite outpourings of a hundred gladsome birds, the humming of a myriad insects, the gentle lisping of the soft wind amidst the branches. And with it came the heart-stirring fragrance of opening buds and swaying blossoms, the wonderful incense of spring which is also the incense of love.

Margaret raised her head slowly until her eyes, deep and glowing, met John’s. They were no longer fearful; they were glorious.

“Ah, can’t you see?” she whispered pleadingly.

A flame of colour swept into her face and she laughed softly—a laugh that thrilled him through and through. The interlaced fingers parted and she threw her arms wide open in a sudden gesture of utter surrender.

“Can’t you—won’t you understand that I’m—I’m trying to tell you—now?”

THE END