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 should snatch the situation into his arms and crush her sorrow out against his breast. Then in that second's hesitancy she shook her hair out of her eyes and looked up at him like a sick, wistful child.

"Oh, Drew," she pleaded, "you've never, never failed me yet all my hard lessons, all my Fourth- of-July accidents, all my broken sleds and lost skates. Could n t you help me now we're grown up? I'm so unhappy."

The grimness came back to Drew's face.

"Has Aleck Reese been mean to you?" he asked.

Her eyebrows lifted in denial. &quot;Oh, no-not specially," she finished a trifle wearily. "I simply made up my mind at last that I did n t want to marry him."

Drew's frown relaxed. "Then what's the trou ble ?" he suggested.

Her eyebrows arched again. "What's the trou ble ?" she queried. "Why, I happen to love him. That's all.""

She took her hand away from Drew and began to smooth her skirt once more.

"Yes," she repeated slowly, "as long ago as last winter I made up my mind that I did n't want to marry him but I did n't make up my courage until Spring. My courage, I think, is just about six months slower than my mind. And then, too, my 'love-margin was n't quite used up, I suppose. A