Edith was contrite—­but doubted the bite.  Then they sat down on a mossy rock, and ate stacks of sandwiches and hard-boiled eggs, and watched the water, and talked, talked, talked.  At least Edith talked—­mostly about Maurice.  Johnny lit his pipe, puffed once or twice, then let it go out and sat staring into the green wall of the woods on the other side of the brook.  Then, suddenly, quietly, he began to speak....

“I want to say something.”

“The mosquitoes here are awful!” Edith said, nervously; “don’t you think we’d better go home?”

“Look here, Edith; you’ve got to be half decent to me—­unless, of course, you’ve soured on me?  If you have, I’ll shut up.”

“Johnny, don’t be an idiot!  ’Course I haven’t soured on you.  You’re the oldest friend I’ve got.  Older than Maurice, even.”

“Well, I guess I am an older friend than Maurice!  But lately you’ve treated me like a dog.  You skulk round to keep from being by ourselves.  You never give me a chance to open my head to you—­”

“Johnny, that’s perfectly absurd!  I’ve had to look after Eleanor—­”

“Eleanor nothing!  It’s me you want to shake.”

“I do not want to shake you!  I’m just busy.”

“Edith, I care a lot about you.  I don’t care much for girls, as a rule.  But you’re not girly.  And every time I try to talk to you, you sidestep me.”

“Now, Johnny—­”

“But I’m going to tell you, all the same.”  He made a clutch at the sopping-wet hem of her skirt.  “I will say it!  I care an awful lot about you.  I’m not a boy.  I want to marry you.”

There was a dead silence; then Edith said, despairingly, “Oh, Johnny, how perfectly horrid you are!” He gasped.  “You simply spoil everything with this sort of ... of ... of talk.”

“You mean you don’t like me?” His face twitched.

“Like you?  I like you awfully!  That’s why I’m so mad at you.  Why, I’m awfully fond of you—­”

“Edith!”

“I mean I never had a friend like you.  I’ve always liked you ten times better than any silly old girl friend I ever had.  I’ve liked you almost as much as Maurice.  Of course I shall never like anybody as much as Maurice.  He comes next to father and mother.  But now you go and—­and talk ...  I just can’t bear it,” Edith said, and fumbled for her pocket handkerchief; “I hate talk.”  Her eyes overflowed.

“Edith!  Look here; now, don’t!  Honestly, I can stand being turned down, but I can’t stand—­that.  Edith, please!  I never saw you do that—­girl stunt.  I’ll never bother you again, if you’ll just stop crying!”

Edith, unable to find her handkerchief, bent over and wiped her eyes on her dress.  “I’m not crying,” she said, huskily; “but—­”

“I think,” John Bennett said, “honestly, Edith, I think I’ve loved you all my life.”

“And I have loved you,” she said; “You are a lamb!  Oh, Johnny, I’m perfectly crazy about you!”