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“Please don’t,” she begged hastily. “I–I want you inside.”

He did not retire again, nor did he advance.

“You want to know–” he said.

With a stupendous effort she faced and answered him.

“I want to know what made you ask me to marry you.”

Tots did not at once reply. He sat on his perch with his back to the light, and contemplated her.

“I should have thought a clever little girl like you might have guessed that,” he said at length.

This was intolerable. She felt her courage ebbing fast.

“I’m not clever,” she said, a desperate quiver in her voice, “and I–I’m not good at guessing riddles.”

In the silence that followed, she wondered wildly if she had made him angry at last. Then he spoke in his usual good-natured drawl, and her heart gave a great throb of relief.

“I think you’re chaffin’,” he said.

“I’m not,” she assured him feverishly. “I’m not indeed. I always mean what I say. That is—-“

“Of course,” said Tots, with kindly reassurance. “I knew that. Why, my dear child, that’s just what made me do it. I took a likin’ to you for that very reason.”

She stared at him speechlessly. There was absolutely nothing left to say. He really cared for her, it seemed. He really cared! And she? With a gasp of despair she abandoned the unequal strife, and hid her face from him in an agony of tears. Why, why, why, had this knowledge come to her so late?

He was by her side in an instant, stroking, soothing, comforting her, as though she had been a child. When she partially recovered herself her head was against his shoulder, and he was drying her eyes clumsily but tenderly with his own handkerchief.

“There! there!” he said. “Don’t cry any more. Some one’s been troublin’ you. Just let me know who it is, and I’ll wring his neck.”

She raised herself weakly. The desire to laugh quite left her. She leaned her head in her hands, and forced down her tears.

“You–don’t understand,” she said at last.

“Don’t I?” said Tots. “Why, I thought we were gettin’ on so well.”

“I know. I know.” She was making a supreme effort. It must be now or never. “You have been very good to me. But–but–we never have got on really. It was all a mistake.”

“What do you mean?” said Tots.

She fancied his tone had changed a little. It sounded somehow brisker than usual. He was angry, whispered her panting heart, and if she angered him–ah, how should she bear it? But the next instant a big, consoling hand pressed her shoulder, and the misgiving passed.

“Don’t tremble like this, little one,” he said. “You can’t be afraid of me. No one ever was before. There has been a mistake, you say. What was it? Can’t you bring yourself to tell me?”

There was something in his voice that moved her strangely, kindling that in her which turned her passionate regret to tragedy. Her head sank a little lower in her hands. How could she tell him? How could she? Yet he must know, even if–even if it transformed his love to hatred. The bare thought hurt her intolerably. He was the only friend she had. And yet–and yet–he must know. She swallowed a desperate sob, and spoke.

“I’ve been deceiving you. I’ve trifled with you. When you proposed to me–I didn’t know–didn’t realise–you were in earnest. No one had ever proposed to me before. I didn’t understand. And when I accepted you–I wasn’t in earnest either. I–I was just spiteful. Afterwards–when I found out–it was too late. I couldn’t tell you then.”

The confession went haltingly out into silence. She dared not raise her head. Moreover, she was weeping, and she did not want him to know it.

There was a motionless pause. Then at length the hand on her shoulder began to rub up and down, comfortingly, caressingly.

“Don’t cry!” said Tots. “Hadn’t you better have some breakfast? That bacon must be gettin’ pretty beastly.”