Lois Howe's mind was in a strange tumult that night; the subtile thrill, which is neither pain nor pride, and yet seems both, with which a young woman hears for the first time that she is loved, stung through all her consciousness of grief at having wounded her old friend.

Tears came into her eyes once, and yet she did not know why; perhaps it was anger.

How could Gifford have been so foolish as to talk that way, and make her have to say what she did?
The old friendship was what she wanted.

And then more tears came; and for the first time in her simple girlish life, Lois could not understand her own heart.
It was because Helen had gone away, she said to herself, and she was tired; and that gave her the right to cry with all her heart, which was a great relief.
But Lois was young.

The next morning, when she pushed back her windows, she felt joy bubble up in her soul as unrestrainedly as though she had never said a word to Gifford which could make his heart ache.