been pounded into my ancestors and passed on to me with the aid of the beech rod, the looking-glass, and the shrill voice of Elder Whitman in the schoolhouse. For a long time my love for Florence was a secret locked in my own breast.
Summer had returned to the little village in the hills, and one Saturday in June I gathered wild flowers in the fields and took them to Florence. She received them with a cry of joy, and asked me to show her where they grew; so away we went together into the meadows by a wayside, and, when our hands were full, sat under a tree to look at them. Then, poor lad! I opened my heart to her, and I remember it was in full bloom. I shall never forget the sweet, girlish frankness with which she said:
“I'm sorry, but I cannot love you.”
“I didn't think it would be possible,” I said.
“Oh yes, it would be possible,” she explained; “but, you see, I love another.”
I remember well how her frankness hurt me. I turned away, and had trouble to breathe for a moment. She saw the effect of her words, and said, by way of comfort: “But I think you're very, very nice; Henry likes you, too.”
Henry was her brother and my chum at school.
“I wish you would tell me what to do with him,” she went on, after a moment. “He's drinking, and behind in his work, and I am terribly worried.”
“It's nothing to worry about,” I said, though not in perfect innocence. “All great men drink—it helps 'em stand the strain, I suppose.”
“Havelock, you talk like a child,” she answered. “These leading men are leading us in the wrong direction. You boys think that they are so wonderful you begin to take after them. Look at Ralph. He's going to the bad as fast as possible. I'd pack up and go home with Henry if—”
Her eyes filled with tears. I sat silent and full of shame, and quite aware of her secret. She loved Ralph Buckstone, the good-looking son of the great Colonel.
“You love him, don't you?” I said, sorrowfully.
She smiled at me through a
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