But when he got to the door he
did not at all resemble a conqueror.
"You're sure she--cares for me?" asked Dave, for the hundredth time.
This time, as always, his friend was faithful and convincing.
"I know she does. Go--hurry. I tell you I can't stand this any
longer," cried George, pushing Dave out of the door.
"You won't go--first?" whispered Dave, clinging to the door.
"I won't go at all. I couldn't ask her--I don't want her--go! Get
out!"
Dave started reluctantly toward the adjoining cabin, from the open
window of which came the song of the young woman who was responsible
for all this trouble. George flung himself on his bed. What a relief
to feel it was all over! He lay there with eves shut for hours, as
it seemed. After a time Dave came in. George leaped to his feet and
saw his friend stumbling over a chair. Somehow, Dave did not look as
usual. He seemed changed, or shrunken, and his face wore a
discomfited, miserable expression.
"Well?" cried George, sharply. Even to his highly excited
imagination this did not seem the proper condition for a victorious
lover.
"She refused--refused me," faltered Dave. "She was very sweet and
kind; said something about being my sister--I don't remember just
what--but she wouldn't have me."
"What did you say to her?" whispered George, a paralyzing hope
almost rendering him speechless.
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