ms 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