“Really, truly, dear.”
They were in the grove now, close by the stile; and when the last words fell reluctantly from Jo’s lips, Laurie dropped her hands and turned as if to go on, but for once in his life that fence was too much for him; so he just laid his head down on the mossy post, and stood so still that Jo was frightened.
“O Teddy, I’m so sorry, so desperately sorry, I could kill myself if it would do any good! I wish you wouldn’t take it so hard. I can’t help it; you know it’s impossible for people to make themselves love other people if they don’t,” cried Jo inelegantly but remorsefully, as she softly patted his shoulder, remembering the time when he had comforted her so long ago.
“They do sometimes,” said a muffled voice from the post.
“I don’t believe it’s the right sort of love, and I’d rather not try it,” was the decided answer.
There was a long pause, while a blackbird sung blithely on the willow by the river, and the tall grass rustled in the wind. Presently Jo said very soberly, as she sat down on the step of the stile—
“Laurie, I want to tell you something.”
He started as if he had been shot, threw up his head, and cried out, in a fierce tone—
“ Don’t tell me that, Jo; I can’t bear it now!”
“Tell what?” she asked, wondering at his violence.
“That you love that old man.”
“What old man?” demanded Jo, thinking he must mean his grandfather.