And that's what I have come to ask you about." "Then I should say that you oughtn't to quarrel with a dear old man like Baron von Marhof.

Besides, he's your uncle." "No! No! I don't want him to be my uncle! I don't need any uncle!" He glanced about with an anxiety that made her laugh.
"I understand perfectly! My father told me that the events of April in these hills were not to be mentioned.

But don't worry; the sheep won't tell--and I won't." He was silent for a moment as he thought out the words of what he wished to say to her.

The sun was dipping down into the hills; the mellow air was still; the voice of a negro singing as he crossed a distant field stole sweetly upon them.
"Shirley!" He touched her hand.
"Shirley!" and his fingers closed upon hers.
"I love you, Shirley! From those days when I saw you in Paris,--before the great Gettysburg battle picture, I loved you.

You had felt the cry of the Old World, the story that is in its battle-fields, its beauty and romance, just as I had felt the call of this new and more wonderful world.