"Who? What are you talking about, Maggie?" interrupted Mary. "Who will be proud of me and who is a fine young fellow?"
"Who? Why, Mr. Smith, of course; who else? He's down in the parlor waitin' for you now. I'll tell him you'll be down."
Before Mary could stop her she had left the room and was on her way downstairs. Mary followed a moment later. She had not expected a visit from Crawford, who had called already that week. She wondered why he had come.
She found him in the parlor. Mrs. Wyeth was out shopping with Miss Pease, and he and she were alone. He rose to meet her as she entered.
"Why, Crawford," she said, "what is the matter? Has anything happened? Why do you look so serious?"
He smiled ruefully. "I guess because I am rather serious," he answered. "I've had some news and I came to tell you about it."
Then, noticing her gown, he added: "But you're going out, aren't you?"
"I am going out by and by. I am going to dine and spend the evening with Barbara Howe. But I am not going yet. Won't you sit down?"
"I will if you're sure you can spare the time. I hope you can, because--well, because I do want to talk to you. I've had bad news from home. My father is ill--and in the doctor's care."
"Oh, I'm so sorry. I hope it isn't serious."
"I don't know whether it is or not. It can't be desperately serious, because he wrote the letter himself. But at any rate it's serious enough for me. He wants me to give up my work here at the Harvard Medical and come West."
Mary gasped. "Give it up!" she repeated. "Give up your studies?
Give up medicine? Surely he doesn't want you to do that!"
Crawford shook his head. "No, not quite that," he replied. "I wouldn't do that, even for him. But he writes that he is not well and is not likely to be better for a good while, if ever, and he would be very much happier if I were nearer at hand. He wants me to give up here at the Harvard Med. and take up my work again at Denver or Salt Lake City or somewhere out there. Even Chicago would seem much nearer, he says. It's a pitiful sort of letter. The old chap seems dreadfully down in the dumps. He wants me, that's plain enough, and he seems to think he needs me. Says if I were at Denver I could come home every little while, whereas here I can't. What ought I to do? I hate to say no, and I hate just as much to say yes."
Mary considered.
"I think you must decide for yourself," she said after a moment.
"You have your career to consider, of course."
"Yes, I have. But, to be perfectly honest, I suppose my career would not be influenced greatly if I went. There are plenty of good medical colleges in the West. It is only that I am a Harvard man and I hoped to finish at the Harvard school, that is all. But I COULD go. What do you advise?"
Again Mary took time for consideration. Her face now was as grave as his. At last she said, without raising her eyes: "I think you ought to go."
He groaned. "I was afraid you would say that," he admitted. "And I suppose you are right."
"Yes, I think I am. If your father needs you and wants you, and if your career will not be influenced for harm, I--well, I think you should do as he wishes."
"And my own wishes shouldn't count, I suppose?"
"Why, no, not in this case; not much, at any rate. Do you think they should?"
"Perhaps not. But--but yours?"
"Mine?"
"Yes. Do YOU want me to go away?" He leaned forward in his chair and repeated earnestly: "Do you, Mary?"
She looked at him and her eyes fell before the look in his. Her heart began to beat quickly and she glanced apprehensively toward the partly opened door. He rose and closed it. Then he came close to her.
"Mary," he said, earnestly, "do you know why this appeal of Dad's has hit me so very hard? Why it is going to be so mighty difficult to say yes and leave here? It isn't because I hate to give up Harvard. I do hate that, of course, but I'd do it in a minute for Dad. It isn't that. It's because I can't--I just can't think of leaving you. You have come to be--"
She interrupted. "Please don't," she begged. "Please!"
He went on, unheeding:
"You have come to mean about all there is in life for me," he declared. "It isn't money or success or reputation I've been working and plugging for these last few months; it's just you. I didn't think so once--I used to think such things were just in books--but now I know. I love you, Mary."
Again she protested. "Oh, Crawford," she begged, "please!"
"No; you've got to hear me. It's true; I love you, and if you can care for me, I am going to marry you. Not now, of course; I've got my way to make first; but some day, if I live."
His teeth set in the determined fashion she had learned to know meant unswerving purpose. She looked up, saw the expression of his face, and for the instant forgot everything except her pride in him and her joy that she should have awakened such feelings. Then she remembered other things, things which she had spent many hours of many nights in debating and considering. As he bent toward her she evaded him and rose.
"Don't, Crawford! Please!" she said again. "You mustn't say such things to me. It isn't right that you should."
He looked puzzled. "Why not?" he asked. "At any rate, right or wrong, I must say them, Mary. I've been holding them in for months and now I've just got to say them. I love you and I want to marry you. May I?"
"Oh, no, Crawford! No! It is impossible."
"Impossible! Why? Is it--is it because you don't care for me?
Don't you, Mary?"
She did not answer.
"Don't you?" he repeated. "Look at me! Can't you care, Mary?"
She was silent. But when he took a step toward her she raised her hands in protest.
"Please don't!" she pleaded. "No, you mustn't--we mustn't think--
Oh, no, it is impossible!"
"It isn't impossible. If you love me as I do you it is the only possible thing in the world. Listen, dear--"
"Hush! I mustn't listen. Be sensible, Crawford! think! We are both so young. You are only beginning your studies. It will be years before you can--before you should consider marrying."
"But we can wait. I am willing to wait if you will only promise to wait for me. I'll work--HOW I'll work!--and--"
