A f-riend--an--acquaintance of mine has disgraced himself," she said,
with a very apparent effort.

An ordinary woman would have broken down in a tearful tempest, but as
has been said before she was denied that sweet relief which most women
find in a readily responsive gush of tears. Her eyes became very dry and
exceedingly hot. Her misery was evident.

The Doctor took her hand with a movement of involuntary sympathy. "I am
deeply hurt to see you grieve," he said, "and I wish that I might say
something to alleviate your troubles. Is it anything that you can tell
me about?"

"No, it is nothing of which I can say a word to any one," she answered.
"It is a trouble that I can share with no one, and least of all with a
stranger."

"Am I not more than a stranger to you?" he asked.

"O yes, indeed," she said, and hastening to correct her former coldness,
added:

"You are a very dear, good friend, whom I value much more highly than I
have given you reason to think."

His face brightened wonderfully, but he adventured his way slowly. "I am
very glad that you esteem me what I have tried to show myself during our
acquaintance."

"You have indeed shown yourself a very true friend. I could not ask for
a better one."

"Then will you not trust me with a share of your sorrows, that I may
help you bear them?"

"No, no; you can not. Nobody can do anything in this case but myself."

"You do not know. You do not know what love can accomplish when it sets
itself to work with the ardor belonging to it."

"Love! O, do not speak to me of that," she said, suddenly awaking to the
drift of his words, and striving to withdraw her hand.

"No, but I must speak of it," he said with vehemence entirely foreign
to his usual half-mocking philosophy. "I must speak of it," he repeated
with deepening tones. "You surely can not be blind to the fact that I
love you devotedly--absorbingly. Every day's intercourse must have shown
you something of this, which you could not have mistaken. You must have
seen this growing upon me continually, until now I have but few thoughts
into which your image does not appear, to brighten and enhance them.
Tell me now that hopes, dearer--infinitely dearer--than any I have ever
before cherished, are to have the crown of fruition."

"I can not--I can not," she sighed.

"What can you not? Can't you care for me at least a little?"

"I do; I care for you ever so much. I am not only grateful for all that
you have