S. Jones.

“I was beginning to despair, Monty,” said Miss Drew, reproachfully, when he had come down from the height of his exasperation and remembered that there were things of more importance.

The light in his eyes brought the faintest tinge of red to her cheeks, and where a moment before there had been annoyance there was now a feeling of serenity.  For a moment the silence was fraught with purpose.  Monty glanced around the room, uncertain how to begin.  It was not so easy as he had imagined.

“You are very good to see me,” he said at last.  “It was absolutely necessary for me to talk to you this evening; I could not have endured the suspense any longer.  Barbara, I’ve spent three or four sleepless nights on your account.  Will it spoil your evening if I tell you in plain words what you already know?  It won’t bother you, will it?” he floundered.

“What do you mean, Monty?” she begged, purposely dense, and with wonderful control of her eyes.

“I love you, Babs,” he cried.  “I thought you knew about it all along or I should have told you before.  That’s why I haven’t slept.  The fear that you may not care for me has driven me nearly to distraction.  It couldn’t go on any longer.  I must know to-day.”

There was a gleam in his eyes that made her pose of indifference difficult; the fervor of his half-whispered words took possession of her.  She had expected sentiment of such a different character that his frank confession disarmed her completely.  Beneath his ardent, abrupt plea there was assurance, the confidence of one who is not to be denied.  It was not what he said, but the way he said it.  A wave of exultation swept over her, tingling through every nerve.  Under the spell her resolution to dally lightly with his emotion suffered a check that almost brought ignominious surrender.  Both of her hands were clasped in his when he exultingly resumed the charge against her heart, but she was rapidly regaining control of her emotions and he did not know that he was losing ground with each step he took forward.  Barbara Drew loved Brewster, but she was going to make him pay dearly for the brief lapse her composure had experienced.  When next she spoke she was again the Miss Drew who had been trained in the ways of the world, and not the young girl in love.

“I care for you a great deal, Monty,” she said, “but I’m wondering whether I care enough to—­to marry you.”

“We haven’t known each other very long, Babs,” he said, tenderly, “but I think we know each other well enough to be beyond wondering.”

“It is like you to manage the whole thing,” she said, chidingly.  “Can’t you give me time to convince myself that I love you as you would like, and as I must love if I expect to be happy with the man I marry?”

“I forgot myself,” he said, humbly.

“You forgot me,” she protested, gently, touched by this sign of contrition.  “I do care for you, Monty, but don’t you see it’s no little thing you ask of me?  I must be sure—­very sure—­before I—­ before—­”