Doctor Urquhart (of course I shall go on calling him “Doctor Urquhart,” to people in general; nobody but me has any business with his Christian name), Doctor Urquhart looked at me and smiled; then he began telling me about these friends of his; and how brokenhearted the old mother was, having lost both daughters in a few months--did I remember the night of the camp concert, and young Ansdell who sung there? I remembered some young man being called for, as Doctor Urquhart wanted him. “Yes--I had to summon him home; his eldest sister had suddenly died. Only a cold and fever--such as you yourself might have caught that night--you thoughtless girl. You little knew how angry you made me.” “Did I? Something was amiss with you--I did not know what--but I saw it in your looks.” “Could you read my looks even then, little lady?” It was idle to deny it--and why should I, when it made him happy? Radiantly happy his face was now--the sharp lines softened, the wrinkles smoothed out. He looked ten years younger; ah! I am glad I am only a girl still; in time I shall actually make him young. Here, the hall-bell sounded--and though visitors are never admitted to this special little parlour, still Max turned restless, and said he must go. “Why?” He hesitated--then said hastily:-- “I will tell you the truth; I am happier out of your sight than in it, just at present.” I made no answer. “To-night, I mean to start--on that journey I told you of.” Which was to him a very painful one, I perceived. “Go then, and get it over. You will come back to me soon.” “God grant it.” He was very much agitated. The only woman he had ever wished for his wife. This, I was. And I felt like a wife. Talk of Penelope's long courtship--Lisabel's marriage--it was I that was, in heart and soul, the real _wife_; ay, though Max and I were never more to one another than now; though I lived as Theodora Johnston to the end of my days. So I took courage--and since it was not allowed me to comfort him in any other way, I just stole my hand inside his, which clasped instantly and tightly round it. That was all, and that was enough. Thus we sat side by side, when the door opened--and in walked papa. How strangely the comic and the serious are mixed up together in life, and even in one's own nature. While writing this, I have gone off into a hearty fit of laughter, at the recollection of papa's face when he saw us sitting there. Though at the time it was no laughing matter. For a moment he was dumb with astonishment--then he said severely:-- “Doctor Urquhart, I suppose I must conclude--indeed, I can only conclude one thing. But you might have spoken to me, before addressing yourself to my daughter.” Max did not answer immediately--when he did, his voice absolutely made me start. “Sir, I have been very wrong--but I will make amends--you shall know all. Only first--as my excuse,” here he spoke out passionately, and told papa all that I was to him, all that we were to one another.