must wait, for she had no idea of becoming married for the present, because there were many things she wanted to do, and while she was ever so fond of him as a friend she did not think she loved him, though some day she might.  But he had always thought it would be just a matter of time, for he had considered it a settled thing.  Then he had come to Sweetapple Cove, and written to her often, for he expected her to return to Newfoundland soon.  Her letters came rather seldom, for she was working very hard.

“And now, when she comes,” he continued, “I shall have to tell her it was all a ghastly mistake on my part.  I shall have to tell her the truth, brutally, frankly.  I will have to say that I really never loved her; that it was a boy’s idea that continued into a man’s thoughts, until one day he realized that he loved another woman.”

“But she really never loved you, John,” I exclaimed.  “If she had she never would have allowed you to go away.”

“I hope to God she never did!” he exclaimed.  “But in those old days I asked her to be my wife, and I told her I would wait for her.  And she has always been very fond of me, at least as a good friend, and—­and—­who knows?  I hate the idea that I must perhaps inflict pain upon her, some day.”

But I shook my head, obstinately.

“No, she never loved you,” I insisted.  “I know now how people love.  It is a desire to cling to one, to be ever with him, to share with him toil, and pain, and hunger, joyfully, happily, for all the days and days to come.  And when you have to leave me I shall be restless and nervous, like that poor dear Mrs. Barnett, until you come back and I can be glad again.  Oh!  John!  That girl never loved you!”

Just then the little parson’s wife came up, smilingly as ever.

“Are you two having lover’s quarrels already?” she asked.

“No,” I answered, “I was explaining to him that no other woman ever could—­or—­or ever would....”

“Oh!  My dear,” she interrupted, “the explanation of obvious things is one of the most delightful privileges of the engaged state, and I won’t interrupt you any more.  I’m going to see the new Burton baby, and, by the way, here is a lot of stuff for Dr. Grant, that has been accumulating.  I suppose he may be allowed to show a faint interest in his mail, at least after his nurse leaves him.  Good-by, you dear children.”

She put a large bundle of papers and letters in John’s lap, and went away, waving her hand cheerily.  John didn’t pay the slightest attention to his correspondence at first, for we began to discuss some plans we were making for a little house, but after a few moments he idly turned over the medical papers, and the pamphlets and circulars, and suddenly his eyes fell on a letter, that was addressed in big bold characters.

I knew at once that it was from that girl, and a little shudder came over me.  I rose and walked away towards Frenchy’s child, who was now well and playing with a long-suffering woolly pup, and began to talk to him.  But all the time I was watching and listening.  I suppose one can’t help doing such things.  Then I heard him calling me, and I hurried back.