Blue-Bird Weather

"I have not offered it to you, Miss Herold."

She looked up, still flushed and brilliant eyed; then her face changed

softly. "I know it. I was foolishly sensitive. I know you couldn't offer

such a thing to me. But I wish I knew whether we could accept for Jim.

He is such a darling--so intelligent and perfectly crazy for an

education. I've saved a little--that's why I wanted you to hire me for

your bayman. You see I don't spend anything on myself," she added, with

a blush.

Marche was fighting hard for self-restraint; he was young and romantic,

and his heart was very full. "What I'd like to do," he said, "would be

to send Jim to some first-rate school until he is ready for college.

Then I'd like to see him through college, and, if he cared for it, start

him with me in business."

"Oh," she cried softly, "is it possible! Is there--can any man really do

such heavenly things? Have you any idea what you are saying? Do you

realize what you are doing to me--with every word you utter?"

"What am I doing to--to you?" he asked unsteadily.

"Making me your slave," she said, in a low voice, thrilling with

generous passion. "Even for the thought--even if father will not

accept--what you have said to me to-night has put me in your debt

forever. Truly--truly, I know what friendship is, now."

She clasped her hands tightly and said something else, sweetly

incoherent; and, in the starlight, Marche saw the tears sparkling on her

lashes.

With that he sprang nervously to the shore and began to tramp up and

down the shingle, his mind in a whirl, every sense, common or the

contrary, clamoring for finality--urging him to tell her the truth--tell

her that he loved her, that he wanted her--her alone, out of all the

world of women--that it was for love and for her, and for love of her,

that he offered anything, did anything, thought anything now under the

high stars or under the circling sun.

And now, as he tramped savagely to and fro, he realized that he had

begun wrong; that he should have told her he loved her first of all, and

then acted, not promised.

Would she look on his offer scornfully, now? Would she see, in what he

asked of her, a bribe desired for the offer he had made in her brother's

behalf? She did not love him. How could she, in a week? Never had there

been even a hint of sentiment between them. What would she think--this

young girl, so tranquilly confident in her friendship for him--what

would she think of him and his love? He knew there was nothing

mercenary or material in her character; he knew she was young, sweet

tempered, reticent concerning herself, clean hearted, and proud. How

could he come blundering through the boundaries of her friendship with

such an avowal, at a moment's notice?