At Love's Cost

"I am not angry--ought I to be? Yes, I suppose so. We are almost

strangers--have seen so little of each other."

"They say that love, all true love, comes at first sight," he said in

his deep voice. "I used to laugh at the idea; but now I know it is

true. I loved you the first time I met you, Ida!"

Her lip quivered and her brows knit.

"It seems so wonderful," she said, musingly, "I do not understand it.

The first time! We scarcely spoke--and I was almost angry with you for

fishing in the Heron. And I did--did not think of you--"

He made a gesture, repudiating the mere idea.

"Is it likely! Why should you?" he said. "I was just an ordinary man,

crossing your path for the first and perhaps the only time. Good

heavens! there was no reason why you should give a thought to me, why I

should linger in your mind for half a moment after I was out of your

sight. But for me--Haven't I told you how beautiful you are, Ida! You

are the loveliest, the sweetest.--But, even if you had not been--I mean

it is not because you are so beautiful that I love you--" She looked at

him with a puzzled, troubled look.

"No! I can't explain. See, now, there's not a look of yours, not a

feature that I don't know by heart as if I'd learnt it. When I am away

from you I can see you--see the way your hair clusters in soft little

curls at your forehead, the long lashes sweeping your cheek, the--the

trick your eyes have of turning from grey to violet--oh, I know your

face by heart, and I _love_ it for its beauty; but if you were to lose

it all, if you were not the loveliest creature God had ever made, it

would make no difference. You would still be _you_: and it is you I

want. Ida--give yourself to me--trust me! Oh, dearest, you don't know

what love is! Let me teach you!"

Once again he got hold of her hand; and she let it remain in his grasp;

but her quiescence did not mean yielding, and he knew it.

"No," she said, with a deep breath. "It is true that I do not know. And

I am--afraid." A wan little smile that was more piteous than tears

curved her lips: for "afraid" seemed strange coming from her, the

fearless child of the hills and dales. "If--if I said 'yes'--Ah, but I

do not!" she broke off as he made to draw her to him, and she shrank

back. "I do not! I said 'if,' it would not be true; it would not be

fair. For I do not know. I might be--sorry, after--after you had gone.

And it would be too late then."