Ethel Barr had once said, his friendship was so different from that of others, and she could never feel sure that what she hoped might be love was only a warm brotherly affection.
One Sunday evening, neither being at work, they were alone in the parlor at the Morris home. Mercedes' impulsive nature made it almost impossible for her to conceal the truth when she cared particularly for any one. Perhaps the young railroader noticed it more than usual this evening. He was very attentive and affectionate, yet more melancholy than he had ever been. He seemed to have something to tell her which was difficult to say, for two or three times he started to speak and stopped suddenly, as if afraid to go on. Later in the evening he seemed to bring all his resolution to the front, and sitting down close to Mercedes he placed an arm about the girl's waist and drew her to him, saying with a strange look of compassion:
"Mercedes, I have something to tell you, which should have been told months ago; but I have enjoyed being with you so very much—it is a happiness which is hard to think of giving up. I do not try to conceal the fact that I love you, dear; and I do not think I am mistaken in thinking you care for me. You show it in every action. If it could go on like this always, I should care for nothing more on earth. But the very fact of you learning to care for me in the way I
