"Well, you ought to be something better, and you must be."
"I'll be anything you please, Betty; I'll be President, if you wish it."
"No, thank you, I don't care in the least for Presidents."
"Then I'll be a beggar, you like beggars."
"You'll be just yourself, if you want to please me, Dan," she said
earnestly. "You will be your best self--neither the flattering Lightfoot,
nor the rude Montjoy. You will learn to work, to wait patiently, and to
love one woman. Whoever she may be, I shall say, God bless her."
"God bless her, Betty," he echoed fervently, and added, "Since it's a man
you want, I'll be a man, but I almost wish you had said a President. I
could have been one for you, Betty."
Then he held out his hand. "I don't suppose you will kiss me good-by?" he
pleaded.
"No, I shan't kiss you good-by," she answered.
"Never, Betty?"
Smiling brightly, she gave him her hand. "When you have loved me two years,
perhaps,--or when you marry another woman. Good-by, dear, good-by."
He turned quickly away and went up the little path to the gate. There he
paused for an instant, looked back, and waved his hand. "Good-by, my
darling!" he called, boldly, and passed under the honeysuckle arbour. As he
mounted his horse in the drive he saw her still standing as he had left
her, the roses falling about her, and the sunshine full upon her bended
head.
Until he was hidden by the trees she watched him breathlessly, then,
kneeling in the path, she laid her cheek upon the long grass he had trodden
underfoot.
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