“George, you’re not over-handsome,” admitted Dave, shaking his head.  “But you can never tell about women.  Sometimes they like even little, insignificant fellows.  Don’t be too scared about asking her.  Besides, it will make it easier for me.  You might tell her about me—­you know, sort of feel her out, so I’d—–­”

Dave’s voice failed him here; but he had said enough, and that was most discouraging to poor George.  Dave was so busy screwing up his courage that he forgot all about his friend.

“No; I couldn’t,” gasped George, falling into a chair.  He was ghastly pale.  “I couldn’t ask her to accept me, let alone do another man’s wooing.  She thinks more of you.  She’ll accept you.”

“You really think so?” whispered Dave, nervously.

“I know she will.  You’re such a fine, big figure of a man.  She’ll take you, and I’ll be glad.  This fever and fretting has about finished me.  When she’s yours I’ll not be so bad.  I’ll be happy in your happiness.  But, Dave, you’ll let me see her occasionally, won’t you?  Go!  Hurry—­get it over!”

“Yes; we must have it over,” replied Dave, getting up with a brave, effort.  Truly, if he carried that determined front to his lady-love he would look like a masterful lover.  But when he got to the door he did not at all resemble a conqueror.

“You’re sure she—­cares for me?” asked Dave, for the hundredth time.  This time, as always, his friend was faithful and convincing.

“I know she does.  Go—­hurry.  I tell you I can’t stand this any longer,” cried George, pushing Dave out of the door.

“You won’t go—­first?” whispered Dave, clinging to the door.

“I won’t go at all.  I couldn’t ask her—­I don’t want her—­go!  Get out!”

Dave started reluctantly toward the adjoining cabin, from the open window of which came the song of the young woman who was responsible for all this trouble.  George flung himself on his bed.  What a relief to feel it was all over!  He lay there with eves shut for hours, as it seemed.  After a time Dave came in.  George leaped to his feet and saw his friend stumbling over a chair.  Somehow, Dave did not look as usual.  He seemed changed, or shrunken, and his face wore a discomfited, miserable expression.

“Well?” cried George, sharply.  Even to his highly excited imagination this did not seem the proper condition for a victorious lover.

“She refused—­refused me,” faltered Dave.  “She was very sweet and kind; said something about being my sister—­I don’t remember just what—­but she wouldn’t have me.”

“What did you say to her?” whispered George, a paralyzing hope almost rendering him speechless.

“I—­I told her everything I could think of,” replied Dave, despondently; “even what you said.”

“What I said?  Dave, what did you tell her I said?”

“Why, you know—­about she cared for me—­that you were sure of it, and that you didn’t want her—–­”