looming in the distance, she had a strong desire to turn about and run away.
“Where’s the jews-harp, Jo?” cried Laurie, as soon as he was within speaking distance.
“I forgot it;” and Jo took heart again, for that salutation could not be called lover-like.
She always used to take his arm on these occasions; now she did not, and he made no complaint, which was a bad sign, but talked on rapidly about all sorts of faraway subjects, till they turned from the road into the little path that led homeward through the grove. Then he walked more slowly, suddenly lost his fine flow of language, and, now and then, a dreadful pause occurred. To rescue the conversation from one of the wells of silence into which it kept falling, Jo said hastily—
“Now you must have a good long holiday!”
“I intend to.”
Something in his resolute tone made Jo look up quickly to find him looking down at her with an expression that assured her the dreaded moment had come, and made her put out her hand with an imploring—
“No, Teddy, please don’t!”
“I will, and you must hear me. It’s no use, Jo; we’ve got to have it out, and the sooner the better for both of us,” he answered, getting flushed and excited all at once.
“Say what you like, then; I’ll listen,” said Jo, with a desperate sort of patience.
Laurie was a young lover, but he was in earnest, and meant to “have it out,” if he died in the attempt; so he plunged into the subject with