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stones, numberless oaks and chestnuts tasselling above and around them in fringes of pale yellow or reddish gold moving lightly in the soft air. For days, with the awakening life of the world, something had been stirring in Timothy to press boldly forward and secure a definite claim to what he had always intended should be his. As they sat there in the afternoon stillness, the heightened color in Melissa's face, the tendrils of dark hair curling with dampness around the forehead he had always thought so beautiful, the oft-loved light in her hazel eyes, had precipitated desire into speech; but her answer had not been what he had hoped for.

"There's not anybody else—"

"No, oh no, Timothy; you know that."

In truth, with little to retard and enrich maturity, most of the young people of her acquaintance had already mated; some who were attracted by her looks and by a certain tang in her character, had touched, when they came nearer, the indefinable barrier which even as a child had shut her in to herself. Timothy had touched it too, and ignored it, biding his time. He could not believe that when once he held her face to face she would send him away empty.

A new humility came upon him. "I always knew I was not good enough for you, Melissa—"

"Oh, too good, Timothy."

"But I hoped all the time you loved me a little."