"And--and you've remembered me all this time?" she asked, with a
little tremble in her voice. "I did not know people cared like that."
"And you're not sorry?" persisted Sandy. "You'll let me be your
friend?"
She held out her hand with an earnestness as deep as his own. In an
instant he had caught it to his lips. All the bloom of the summer
rushed to her cheeks, and she drew quickly away.
"Oh! but I'll take it back--I never meant it," cried Sandy, wild with
remorse. "Me heart crossed the line ahead of me head, that was all.
You've given me your friendship, and may the sorrow seize me if I ever
ask for more!"
At this the vireo burst into such mocking, derisive laughter of song
that they both looked up and smiled.
"He doesn't think you mean it," said Ruth; "but you must mean it,
else I can't ever be your friend."
Sandy shook his fist at the bird.
"You spalpeen, you! If I had ye down here I'd throw ye out of the
tree! But you mustn't believe him. I'll stick to my word as the wind
to the tree-tops. No--I don't mean that. As the stream to the shore.
No-"
He stopped and laughed. All figures of speech conspired to make him
break his word.
Somewhere from out the forgotten world came six long, lingering
strokes of a bell.
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