I had expected him to put it in that way, and believing in doing all or nothing, had laid out that I would put my hand in his and promise what he asked.  But now the word wife finished me up.  I was very fond of Harold—­fond to such an extent that had I a fortune I would gladly have given it all to him:  I felt capable of giving him a life of servitude, but I loved him—­big, manly, lovable, wholesome Harold—­from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot he was good in my sight, but lacking in that power over me which would make me desirous of being the mother of his children.

As for explaining my feelings to him—­ha!  He would laughingly call them one of my funny little whims.  With his orthodox, practical, plain, commonsense views of these things, he would not understand me.  What was there to understand?  Only that I was queer and different from other women.  But he was waiting for me to speak.  I had put my hand to the plough and could not turn back.  I could not use the word wife, but I put my hand in his, looked at him steadily, and said—­

“Harold.  I meant what I said last Sunday.  If you want me—­if I am of any use to you—­I will marry you when I attain my majority.”

He was satisfied.

He bade us good-bye early that afternoon, as he intended departing from Five-Bob when the morrow was young, and had two or three little matters to attend to previous to his departure.

I accompanied him a little way, he walking and leading his horse.  We parted beneath the old willow-tree.

“Good-bye, Harold.  I mean all I have said.”

I turned my face upwards; he stooped and kissed me once—­only once—­one light, gentle, diffident kiss.  He looked at me long and intently without saying a word, then mounted his horse, raised his hat, and rode away.

I watched him depart along the white dusty road, looking like a long snake in the glare of the summer sun, until it and he who travelled thereon disappeared among the messmate- and hickory-trees forming the horizon.

I stood gazing at the hills in the distance on which the blue dreaming mists of evening were gathering, until tears stole down my cheeks.

I was not given to weeping.  What brought them?  I hardly knew.  It was not because Harold was leaving, though I would miss him much.  Was it because I was disappointed in love?  I persuaded myself that.  I loved Harold as much as I could ever love anyone, and I could not forsake him now that he needed me.  But, but, but, I did not want to marry, and I wished that Harold had asked anything of me but that, because—­because, I don’t know what, and presently felt ashamed for being such a selfish coward that I grudged to make a little sacrifice of my own inclinations to help a brother through life.

“I used to feel sure that Harry meant to come up to the scratch, but I suppose he’s had plenty to keep him going lately without bothering his head about a youngster in short frocks and a pigtail,” remarked uncle Jay-Jay that night.