"Love letter, Rose?" she inquired carelessly.
"Certainly," responded her friend, "all my letters are love letters.
Would you have me write to a person I didn't love?"
"Why, I couldn't help it, that is supposing the letter you are writing
is addressed to Allan Dunlop. Of course he is a person you don't love."
"There is no reason why I should."
"No reason? O ingratitude! After he dived under the heels of a fiery
horse, carried you nearly lifeless into the house, and took off his
boots every time he entered it for six weeks thereafter. How much
further could a man's devotion go?"
"I am beginning to find out," said Rose, with a slight return of an
invalid's irritation, "how far a _woman's_ devotion can go."
Helene arched her delicate brows. "Are you offended?" she asked,
anxiously. "Ah, don't be! I'll take back every word. He _didn't_ take
off his boots, nor carry you in, nor pick you up, and, let me see--what
other assertion did I make? Oh, yes. Of course he is a person you _do_
love. But oh, Rose, Rose, what are you blushing about? This isn't the
time of year for roses to blush."
"Upon my word, Helene, you are enough to make a stone wall blush.
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