plucked at the withered tops of potatoes. "Oh, Helen!" he broke out at last. "It's that that worries me and makes me ashamed,—the promise, and a great deal more that I 've been thinking all the way over, through it all. I'm ashamed. I came here," he hurried on breathlessly, "I came here and stole it from you, all at once, as if I'd been the only man in the world,—or the best,—without giving you a chance, even, to know what the others were like—Oh, I'm ashamed!" he cried. "It was like a cad,—it was n't fair to you, dear."
Her face had turned pale in the sunlight.
"Are you sorry?" she asked, with a cold voice that was not her own, and that did not conceal her distress and fear.
"No," he cried eagerly. "It's the happiest and truest thing in my life. Oh, don't you see why? It's just because it is n't fair to you. I wanted you to know that there were better fellows, off the island—and on it. Here goes my word!" he exclaimed in dismay. "I can't keep it. You said, the other time, that you never used to feel alone,—that
