I to constitute myself his judge or to take into my own hands the responsibility of correcting him?  I felt ashamed of my conduct; I was sorry to have hurt any one’s feelings.  Moreover, I cannot bear to be at ill-will with my fellows, and am ever the first to give in after having quarrelled.  It is easier than sulking, and it always makes the other party so self-complacent that it is amusing as well as convenient, and—­and—­and—­I found I was very, very fond of Harold Beecham.

I crept noiselessly up the orchard.  He had his back to me, and had moved to where a post of the fence was peeping out among the greenery.  He had his elbow placed thereon, and his forehead resting on his hand.  His attitude expressed dejection.  Maybe he was suffering the torture of a broken ideal.

His right hand hung limply by his side.  I do not think he heard me approach.

My heart beat quickly, and a fear that he would snub me caused me to pause.  Then I nerved myself with the thought that it would be only fair if he did.  I had been rude to him, and he had a right to play tit-for-tat if he felt so disposed.  I expected my action to be spurned or ignored, so very timidly slipped my fingers into his palm.  I need not have been nervous, for the strong brown hand, which had never been known to strike a cowardly blow, completely enfolded mine in a gentle caressing clasp.

“Mr Beecham, Harold, I am so sorry I was so unwomanly, and said such horrible things.  Will you forgive me, and let us start afresh?” I murmured.  All flippancy, bitterness, and amusement had died out of me; I was serious and in earnest.  This must have expressed itself in my eyes, for Harold, after gazing searchingly right there for a time, seemed satisfied, and his mouth relaxed to its habitually lovable expression as he said: 

“Are you in earnest?  Well, that is something more like the little woman.”

“Yes, I’m in earnest.  Can you forgive me?”

“There is nothing to forgive, as I’m sure you didn’t mean and don’t remember the blood curdling sentiments you aired.”

“But I did mean them in one sort of a way, and didn’t in another.  Let us start afresh.”

“How do you mean to start afresh?”

“I mean for us to be chums again.”

“Oh, chums!” he said impatiently; I want to be something more.

“Well, I will he something more if you will try to make me,” I replied.

“How?  What do you mean?”

I mean you never try to make me fond of you.  You have never uttered one word of love to me.”

“Why, bless me!” he ejaculated in surprise.

“It’s a fact.  I have only flirted to try and see if you cared, but you didn’t care a pin.”

“Why, bless me, didn’t you say I was not to show any affection yet awhile?  And talk about not caring—­why, I have felt fit to kill you and myself many a time the last fortnight, you have tormented me so; but I have managed to keep myself within bounds till now.  Will you wear my ring again?”