“Oh, no, I only ran fast.”

“I would have given the world to have seen you, but I was lying on the bench wishing I were dead.  I did not have strength to look out of a porthole.  Oh! that horrible time!  I can never forget it.  I lie awake at night and hear the yelling and shooting.  Then I dream of running over the burning roofs and it all comes back so vividly I can almost feel the flames and smell the burnt wood.  Then I wake up and think of that awful moment when you were carried into the blockhouse white, and, as I thought, dead.”

“But I wasn’t.  And I think it best for us to forget that horrible siege.  It is past.  It is a miracle that any one was spared.  Ebenezer says we should not grieve for those who are gone; they were heroic; they saved the Fort.  He says too, that we shall never again be troubled by Indians.  Therefore let us forget and be happy.  I have forgotten Miller.  You can afford to do the same.”

“Yes, I forgive him.”  Then, after a long silence, Alfred continued, “Will you go down to the old sycamore?”

Down the winding path they went.  Coming to a steep place in the rocky bank Alfred jumped down and then turned to help Betty.  But she avoided his gaze, pretended to not see his outstretched hands, and leaped lightly down beside him.  He looked at her with perplexity and anxiety in his eyes.  Before he could speak she ran on ahead of him and climbed down the bank to the pool.  He followed slowly, thoughtfully.  The supreme moment had come.  He knew it, and somehow he did not feel the confidence the Colonel had inspired in him.  It had been easy for him to think of subduing this imperious young lady; but when the time came to assert his will he found he could not remember what he had intended to say, and his feelings were divided between his love for her and the horrible fear that he should lose her.

When he reached the sycamore tree he found her sitting behind it with a cluster of yellow daisies in her lap.  Alfred gazed at her, conscious that all his hopes of happiness were dependent on the next few words that would issue from her smiling lips.  The little brown hands, which were now rather nervously arranging the flowers, held more than his life.

“Are they not sweet?” asked Betty, giving him a fleeting glance.  “We call them ‘black-eyed Susans.’  Could anything be lovelier than that soft, dark brown?”

“Yes,” answered Alfred, looking into her eyes.

“But—­but you are not looking at my daisies at all,” said Betty, lowering her eyes.

“No, I am not,” said Alfred.  Then suddenly:  “A year ago this very day we were here.”

“Here?  Oh, yes, I believe I do remember.  It was the day we came in my canoe and had such fine fishing.”

“Is that all you remember?”

“I can recollect nothing in particular.  It was so long ago.”

“I suppose you will say you had no idea why I wanted you to come to this spot in particular.”