But he had always
thought it would be just a matter of time, for he had considered it a
settled thing. Then he had come to Sweetapple Cove, and written to her
often, for he expected her to return to Newfoundland soon. Her letters
came rather seldom, for she was working very hard.
"And now, when she comes," he continued, "I shall have to tell her it was
all a ghastly mistake on my part. I shall have to tell her the truth,
brutally, frankly. I will have to say that I really never loved her; that
it was a boy's idea that continued into a man's thoughts, until one day
he realized that he loved another woman."
"But she really never loved you, John," I exclaimed. "If she had she
never would have allowed you to go away."
"I hope to God she never did!" he exclaimed. "But in those old days I
asked her to be my wife, and I told her I would wait for her. And she
has always been very fond of me, at least as a good friend, and--and--who
knows? I hate the idea that I must perhaps inflict pain upon her, some
day."
But I shook my head, obstinately.
"No, she never loved you," I insisted. "I know now how people love. It is
a desire to cling to one, to be ever with him, to share with him toil,
and pain, and hunger, joyfully, happily, for all the days and days to
come. And when you have to leave me I shall be restless and nervous, like
that poor dear Mrs. Barnett, until you come back and I can be glad again.
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