“I won’t be reasonable.  I don’t want to take what you call ‘a sensible view’.  It won’t help me, and it only makes it harder.  I don’t believe you’ve got any heart.”

“I wish I hadn’t.”

There was a little quiver in Jo’s voice, and thinking it a good omen, Laurie turned round, bringing all his persuasive powers to bear as he said, in the wheedlesome tone that had never been so dangerously wheedlesome before, “Don’t disappoint us, dear!  Everyone expects it.  Grandpa has set his heart upon it, your people like it, and I can’t get on without you.  Say you will, and let’s be happy.  Do, do!”

Not until months afterward did Jo understand how she had the strength of mind to hold fast to the resolution she had made when she decided that she did not love her boy, and never could.  It was very hard to do, but she did it, knowing that delay was both useless and cruel.

“I can’t say ‘yes’ truly, so I won’t say it at all.  You’ll see that I’m right, by-and-by, and thank me for it . . .” she began solemnly.

“I’ll be hanged if I do!” and Laurie bounced up off the grass, burning with indignation at the very idea.

“Yes, you will!” persisted Jo.  “You’ll get over this after a while, and find some lovely accomplished girl, who will adore you, and make a fine mistress for your fine house.  I shouldn’t.  I’m homely and awkward and odd and old, and you’d be ashamed of me, and we should quarrel—­we can’t help it even now, you see—­and I shouldn’t like elegant society and you would, and you’d hate my scribbling, and I couldn’t get on without it, and we should be unhappy, and wish we hadn’t done it, and everything would be horrid!”

“Anything more?” asked Laurie, finding it hard to listen patiently to this prophetic burst.

“Nothing more, except that I don’t believe I shall ever marry.  I’m happy as I am, and love my liberty too well to be in a hurry to give it up for any mortal man.”

“I know better!” broke in Laurie.  “You think so now, but there’ll come a time when you will care for somebody, and you’ll love him tremendously, and live and die for him.  I know you will, it’s your way, and I shall have to stand by and see it,” and the despairing lover cast his hat upon the ground with a gesture that would have seemed comical, if his face had not been so tragic.

“Yes, I will live and die for him, if he ever comes and makes me love him in spite of myself, and you must do the best you can!” cried Jo, losing patience with poor Teddy.  “I’ve done my best, but you won’t be reasonable, and it’s selfish of you to keep teasing for what I can’t give.  I shall always be fond of you, very fond indeed, as a friend, but I’ll never marry you, and the sooner you believe it the better for both of us—­so now!”

That speech was like gunpowder.  Laurie looked at her a minute as if he did not quite know what to do with himself, then turned sharply away, saying in a desperate sort of tone, “You’ll be sorry some day, Jo.”