I meant to ask him to give me this book; I would rather have it than anything the world held, when I should be parted from him.

_When!_ I sat down on the seat beside the door, with the book lying in my lap, the straw hat on the bench.

I longed to take it in my hands--to wreathe it with the clematis that grew about the door, as I had done one foolish, happy afternoon, not three weeks ago.

But with a strange inconsistency, I dared not touch it; my face grew hot with blushes as I thought of it.
How should I meet him?
Now that the moment I had longed for had arrived, I wondered that I had dared to long for it.

I felt that if I heard his step, I should fly and hide myself from him.