“I saw you—­go into the wood—­but I lost you,” he said, breathing quickly, “and then when I did see you again—­you were walking so fast I had to run after you.  I wanted—­to speak—­to you—­if you’ll let me.  I won’t detain you—­I can walk your way.”

Miss Trotter was a little softened, but not so much as to help him out with his explanation.  She drew her neat skirts aside, and made way for him on the path beside her.

“You see,” he went on nervously, taking long strides to her shorter ones, and occasionally changing sides in his embarrassment, “my brother Jim has been talking to you about my engagement to Frida, and trying to put you against her and me.  He said as much to me, and added you half promised to help him!  But I didn’t believe him—­Miss Trotter!—­I know you wouldn’t do it—­you haven’t got it in your heart to hurt a poor girl!  He says he has every confidence in you—­that you’re worth a dozen such girls as she is, and that I’m a big fool or I’d see it.  I don’t say you’re not all he says, Miss Trotter; but I’m not such a fool as he thinks, for I know your goodness too.  I know how you tended me when I was ill, and how you sent Frida to comfort me.  You know, too,—­for you’re a woman yourself,—­that all you could say, or anybody could, wouldn’t separate two people who loved each other.”

Miss Trotter for the first time felt embarrassed, and this made her a little angry.  “I don’t think I gave your brother any right to speak for me or of me in this matter,” she said icily; “and if you are quite satisfied, as you say you are, of your own affection and Frida’s, I do not see why you should care for anybody’sinterference.”

“Now you are angry with me,” he said in a doleful voice which at any other time would have excited her mirth; “and I’ve just done it.  Oh, Miss Trotter, don’t!  Please forgive me!  I didn’t mean to say your talk was no good.  I didn’t mean to say you couldn’t help us.  Please don’t be mad at me!”

He reached out his hand, grasped her slim fingers in his own, and pressed them, holding them and even arresting her passage.  The act was without familiarity or boldness, and she felt that to snatch her hand away would be an imputation of that meaning, instead of the boyish impulse that prompted it.  She gently withdrew her hand as if to continue her walk, and said, with a smile:—­

“Then you confess you need help—­in what way?”

“With her!”

Miss Trotter stared.  “With her!” she repeated.  This was a new idea.  Was it possible that this common, ignorant girl was playing and trifling with her golden opportunity?  “Then you are not quite sure of her?” she said a little coldly.

“She’s so high spirited, you know,” he said humbly, “and so attractive, and if she thought my friends objected and were saying unkind things of her,—­well!”—­he threw out his hands with a suggestion of hopeless despair—­“there’s no knowing what she might do.”