Grace impulsively detained him. “I won’t ask you whether you consider Mrs. Maynard’s case a serious one, if you object to my doing so.” “I don’t know that I object,” he said slowly, with a teasing smile, such as one might use with a persistent child whom one chose to baffle in that way. She disdained to avail herself of the implied permission. “What I mean—what I wish to tell you is—that I feel myself responsible for her sickness, and that if she dies, I shall be guilty of her death.” “Ah?” said Dr. Mulbridge, with more interest, but the same smile. “What do you mean?” “She didn’t wish to go that day when she was caught in the storm. But I insisted; I forced her to go.” She stood panting with the intensity of the feeling which had impelled her utterance. “What do you mean by forcing her to go?” “I don’t know. I—I—persuaded her.” Dr. Mulbridge smiled, as if he perceived her intention not to tell him something she wished to tell him. He looked down into his hat, which he carried in his hand. “Did you believe the storm was coming?” “No!” “And you didn’t make it come?” “Of course not!” He looked at her and laughed. “Oh, you don’t at all understand!” she cried. “I’m _not_ a doctor of divinity,” he said. “Good morning.” “Wait, wait!” she implored, “I’m afraid—I don’t know—Perhaps my being near her is injurious to her; perhaps I ought to let some one else nurse her. I wished to ask you this”—She stopped breathlessly. “I don’t think you have done her any harm as yet,” he answered lightly. “However,” he said, after a moment’s consideration, “why don’t you take a holiday? Some of the other ladies might look after her a while.” “Do you really think,” she palpitated, “that I might? Do you think I ought? I’m afraid I oughtn’t”— “Not if your devotion is hurtful to her?” he asked. “Send some one else to her for a while. Any one can take care of her for a few hours.” “I couldn’t leave her—feeling as I do about her.” “I don’t know how you feel about her,” said Dr. Mulbridge. “But you can’t go on at this rate. I shall want your help by and by, and Mrs. Maynard doesn’t need you now. Don’t go back to her.” “But if she should get worse while I am away”— “You think your staying and feeling bad would make her better? Don’t go back,” he repeated; and he went out to his ugly rawboned horse, and, mounting his shabby wagon, rattled away. She lingered, indescribably put to shame by the brutal common sense which she could not impeach, but which she still felt was no measure of the case. It was true that she had not told him everything, and she could not complain that he had mocked her appeal for sympathy if she had trifled with him by a partial confession. But she indignantly denied to herself that she had wished to appeal to him for sympathy.