He wished she would hesitate, stammer, blush; be a little shy.

He wished that she would display surprise, annoyance, even--anything but that eternal air of comradeship.

And then, one afternoon in the early twilight of a January day, he freed his mind, quite unexpectedly.
"Billy, I wish you WOULDN'T be so--so friendly!" he exclaimed in a voice that was almost sharp.
Billy laughed at first, but the next moment a shamed distress drove the merriment quite out of her face.
"You mean that I presume on--on our friendship ?" she stammered.

"That you fear that I will again--shadow your footsteps ?" It was the first time since the memorable night itself that Billy had ever in Bertram's presence referred to her young guardianship of his welfare.

She realized now, suddenly, that she had just been giving the man before her some very "sisterly advice," and the thought sent a confused red to her cheeks.
Bertram turned quickly.
"Billy, that was the dearest and loveliest thing a girl ever did--only I was too great a chump to appreciate it!" finished Bertram in a voice that was not quite steady.
"Thank you," smiled the girl, with a slow shake of her head and a relieved look in her eyes; "but I'm afraid I can't quite agree to that." The next moment she had demanded mischievously: "Why, then, pray, this unflattering objection to my--friendliness now ?" "Because I don't want you for a friend, or a sister, or anything else that's related," stormed Bertram, with sudden vehemence.