“Don’t you think it would be best for us to understand each other, now that we are to be friends?” he asked.

“Yes,” gasped the young girl faintly, fearing every moment that he would lose his self-control and pour out a vehement declaration of his love.  She was prepared to say, “Roger Atwood, I am ready to make any sacrifice within my power that you can ask,” but at the same time felt that she could endure slow torture by fire better than passionate words of love, which would simply bruise the heart that could make no response.  If he would only ask quietly, “Mildred, will you be my wife when the right time comes?  I’ll be content with such love as you can give,” she would have replied with the calmness of an unalterable purpose, “Yes, Roger, and I’ll do my best,” believing that years of effort might be crowned with success.  But now, to have him plead passionately for what she could no more bestow than if she were dead, gave her an indescribable sense of fear, pain, and repugnance; and she cowered and shrank over the sewing which she could scarcely hold, so great was her nervous apprehension.

Instead of the vehement declaration there came a low, mellow laugh, and she lifted her eyes and stared at him, her work dropping from her hands.

Roger understood the situation so well, and was so thoroughly the master of it in his generous self-control and kindly intentions, that he should scarcely be blamed if he got out of it such bitter-sweet enjoyment as he could, and he said, with a twinkle in his eyes, “Miss Millie, I wasn’t going to strike you.”

“I don’t understand you at all,” cried Mildred, with a pathetically perplexed expression and starting tears, for the nervous strain was becoming a little too prolonged.

Roger became grave at once, and with a quiet, gentle manner he came to her side and took her hand.  “Will you be as honest with me as I shall be with you?” he asked.

“I’ll try to be.”

“Well, then, I’ll soon solve for you my poor little riddle.  Miss Mildred, you know that I have loved you ever since you waked up an awkwad, lazy, country fellow into the wish to be a man.”

His words were plain enough now, surely, but she was no longer frightened, for he spoke in such a kindly natural voice that she looked him straight in the eyes, with a delicate bloom in her face, and replied: 

“I didn’t wish to mislead you, Mr. Atwood, and I wouldn’t trifle with you.”

“You have been truth and honesty itself.”

“No, I’ve not,” she answered impetuously; “I cherished an unreasoning prejudice against you, and—­and—­I disliked you, though why, I can’t see now, and nobly you have triumphed over both prejudice and dislike.”

“It will ever be the proudest triumph of my life; but, Miss Mildred, you do not love me in the least, and I fear you never will.”

“I am so sorry, so very sorry,” she faltered, with a crimson face and downcast eyes.