I did not answer, but met his eyes. I know mine were full--I know my lips were quivering. Horribly painful it was to be jested with just then. Doctor Urquhart said gravely; “I was not in earnest; I beg your pardon.” We then returned to the discussion of his plans and intentions. I asked him how he meant to begin his labors? “From a very simple starting-point. 'The doctor' has, of all persons, the greatest influence among the poor--if only he cares to use it. As a commencement, and also because I must earn salt to my porridge, you know, my best course would be to obtain the situation of surgeon to some dispensary, workhouse, hospital, or even gaol. Thence, I could widen my field of work at pleasure, so far as time and money were forthcoming.” “If some one could only give you a fortune now!” “I do not believe in fortunes. A man's best wealth consists of his personal labors, personal life. 'Silver and gold have I none'--but wherever I am, I can give myself, my labors, and my life.” I said something about that being a great gift--many men would call it a great sacrifice. “Less to me than to most men--since, as you know, I have no relatives; nor is it likely I shall ever marry.” I believed so. Not constantly; but at intervals. Something in his manner and mode of thought fixed the conviction in my mind, from our earliest acquaintance. Of course, I merely made some silent assent to this confidence. What was there to say? Perhaps he expected something--for as we turned to walk home, the sun having set, he remained a long time silent. But I could not speak. In truth, nothing came into my head to say. At last I lifted my eyes from the ground, and saw the mist beginning to rise over my moorland--my grey, soft, dreamy moorland. Ay, dreamy, it was, and belonging only to dreams. But the world beyond--the struggling suffering, sinning world of which he had told me--that was a reality. I said to my friend who walked beside me, feeling keenly that he was my friend, and that I had a right to look up into his good noble face, wherein all his life was written as clearly as on a book--thinking too what a comfort and privilege it was to have more than any one else had the reading of that book--I said to Doctor Urquhart--my old hesitation having somehow altogether vanished--that I wished to know all he could possibly tell me of his plans and projects: that I liked to listen to them, and would fain do more than listen--help. He thanked me. “Listening is helping. I hope you will not refuse sometimes to help me in that way--it is a great comfort to me. But the labor I hope for is exclusively a man's--if any woman could give aid you could, for you are the bravest woman I ever knew.” “And do you think I never can help you?” “No.” So our walk ended.