“You were in trouble, weren’t you?  I believe it is just seven years ago.”

“Physiologists tell us we are made over new every seven years, therefore you and I are another Hollis and another Marjorie.”

“I hope I am another Hollis,” he answered gravely.

“And I am sure I am another Marjorie,” she said more lightly.  “How you lectured me then!”

“I never lectured any one.”

“You lectured me.  I never forgot it.  From that hour I wanted to be like your cousin Helen.”

“You do not need to copy any one.  I like you best as yourself.”

“You do not know me.”

“No; I do not know you; but I want to know you.”

“That depends upon yourself as well as upon me.”

“I do not forget that.  I am not quick to read and you are written in many languages.”

“Are you fond of the study—­of languages?  Did you succeed in French?”

“Fairly.  And I can express my wants in German.  Will you write to me again?”

There was a flush now that was not sunburn; but she did not speak; she seemed to be considering.

“Will you, Marjorie?” he urged, with gentle persistence.

“I—­don’t know.”

“Why don’t you know.”

“I have not thought about it for so long.  Let me see—­what kind of letters did you write.  Were they interesting?”

“Yours were interesting.  Were you hurt because—­”

It happened so long ago that she smiled as she looked up at him.

“I have never told you the reason.  I thought Morris Kemlo had a prior claim.”

“What right had you to think that?”

“From what I heard—­and saw.”

“I am ignorant of what you could hear or see.  Morris was my twin-brother; he was my blessing; he is my blessing.”

“Is not my reason sufficient?”

“Oh, yes; it doesn’t matter.  But see that sumach.  I have not seen anything so pretty this summer; mother must have them.  You wouldn’t think it, but she is very fond of wild flowers.”

She stepped aside to pluck the sumach and sprays of goldenrod; they were growing beside a stone wall, and she crossed the road to them.  He stood watching her.  She was as unconscious as the goldenrod herself.

What had her mother meant?  Was it all a mistake?  Had his wretched days and wakeful nights been for nothing?  Was there nothing for him to be grieved about?  He knew now how much he loved her—­and she?  He was not a part of her life, at all.  Would he dare speak the words he had planned to speak?

“Then, Marjorie, you will not write to me,” he began afresh, after admiring the sumach.

“Oh, yes, I will!  If you want to!  I love to write letters; and my life isn’t half full enough yet.  I want new people in it.”

“And you would as readily take me as another,” he said, in a tone that she did not understand.

“More readily than one whom I do not know.  I want you to hear extracts from one of Mrs. Holmes’ delicious letters to-night.”