"What shall I say to thank you?" said Reva, when I found her next morning in their garden feeding her goldfish. "You have been very good to me."
A something in her manner emboldened me to ask, purposely making use of her own expression,—
"Are you yet able to say, what you once gave me some ground to hope for, that we are—very good friends?"
"More than friends, Ismar," said she simply, yet with a certain faltering shyness. "Yes," she continued, answering the glad question she read in my eyes, "I think I really—what they call love you—somewhat at least."
"What makes you believe you begin to love me?" said I, with difficulty repressing any too energetic expression, even in words, of the wild joy I felt, fearing I might scare this shy confidence.
"Many things," replied she, gathering confidence now that the ice was broken, and re-assured by my manner. I always liked you, as I said before; and, when you told me—that time, I found it pleasant to be loved by
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