I couldn't leave papa and the children, and stay
out here, even with you. It would seem so strange and far away."
"You could if you cared for me," replied Clarence, dejectedly; Clover's
kind, argumentative, elder-sisterly tone was precisely that which is most
discouraging to a lover.
"Oh, dear," cried poor Clover, not far from tears herself; "this is
dreadful!"
"What?" moodily. "Having an offer? You must have had lots of them before
now."
"Indeed I never did. People don't do such things in Burnet. Please don't
say any more, Clarence. I'm very fond of you, just as I am of the boys;
but--"
"But what? Go on."
"How can I?" Clover was fairly crying.
"You mean that you can't love me in the other way."
"Yes." The word came out half as a sob, but the sincerity of the accent
was unmistakable.
"Well," said poor Clarence, after a long bitter pause; "it isn't your
fault, I suppose. I'm not good enough for you. Still, I'd have done my
best, if you would have taken me, Clover."
"I am sure you would," eagerly. "You've always been my favorite cousin,
you know. People can't _make_ themselves care for each other; it has to
come in spite of them or not at all,--at least, that is what the novels
say. But you're not angry with me, are you, dear? We will be good friends
always, sha'n't we?" persuasively.
"I wonder if we can," said Clarence, in a hopeless tone. "It doesn't seem
likely; but I don't know any more about it than you do.
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