Yes, I could guess, I knew what he was going to say, and the knowledge left a dull bitterness at my heart.  I knew he was going to tell me that I had been right and he wrong—­that he had found some one he loved better than me, and that some one being my sister, he felt I needed some explanation before he could go in and win; and though I had refused him for want of love, yet it gave me pain when the moment arrived that the only man who had ever pretended to love me was going to say he had been mistaken, and preferred my sister.

There was silence save for the whirr of the countless grasshoppers in the brier bushes.  I knew he was expecting me to help him out, but I felt doggedly savage and wouldn’t.  I looked up at him.  He was a tall grand man, and honest and true and rich.  He loved my sister; she would marry him, and they would he happy.  I thought bitterly that God was good to one and cruel to another—­not that I wanted this man, but why was I so different from other girls?

But then I thought of Gertie, so pretty, so girlish, so understandable, so full of innocent winning coquetry.  I softened.  Could any one help preferring her to me, who was strange, weird, and perverse—­too outspoken to be engaging, devoid of beauty and endearing little ways?  It was my own misfortune and nobody’s fault that my singular individuality excluded me from the ordinary run of youthful joyous-heartednesses, and why should I be nasty to these young people?

I was no heroine, only a common little bush-girl, so had to make the best of the situation without any fooling.  I raised my eyes from the scanty baked wisps of grass at my feet, placed my hand on Hal’s arm, and tiptoeing so as to bring my five-foot stature more on a level with his, said: 

“Yes, Hal, I know what you want to say.  Say it all.  I won’t be nasty.”

“Well, you see you are so jolly touchy, and have snubbed me so often, that I don’t know how to begin; and if you know what I’m going to say, won’t you give me an answer without hearing it?”

“Yes, Hal; but you’d better say it, as I don’t know what conditions—­”

“Conditions!”—­catching me up eagerly at the word.  “If it is only conditions that are stopping you, you can make your own conditions if you will marry me.”

“Marry you, Harold!  What do you mean?  Do you know what you are saying?” I exclaimed.

“There!” he replied:  I knew you would take it as an insult.  I believe you are the proudest girl in the world.  I know you are too clever for me; but I love you, and could give you everything you fancied.”

“Hal, dear, let me explain.  I’m not insulted, only surprised.  I thought you were going to tell me that you loved Gertie, and would ask me not to make things unpleasant by telling her of the foolish little bit of flirtation there had been between us.”

“Marry Gertie!  Why, she’s only a child!  A mere baby, in fact.  Marry Gertie!  I never thought of her in that light; and did you think I was that sort of a fellow, Syb?” he asked reproachfully.