"But you have friends," she continued, comfortingly; "there is Mr Somers, and Sir Savile and I know my father likes you--oh yes, you have friends. You must not be disheartened. You must look upon us all as your friends, Dr Mortimer." "I did not mean to extract all this sympathy from you, Miss Dora," said Jim. "I was only answering your questions." "But I am glad you have told me," said Dora, "because I did not know all this about you before. And I am so sorry for people who have no home," she added, gently. So spoke this maid, barely nineteen, in the innocent warmth of her nature. She could not have remembered that a man can bear taunts, abuse, sarcasm, and show a smiling front, but that the least word of sympathy will break down the same man’s defences and leave his heart--hardened to all else--without a shield. "You are too kind," said Jim again; "it would be better, perhaps, if you were not kind to me at all." Then a silence fell upon them, and in silence they passed from the by-street into the crescent, whose glory was so faded. They walked by several of the shabby houses, still without speaking, but as they drew near to No. 9, the question Dora wanted to ask would not stay within her lips. "Why?" she said, without looking at him. "Because," replied Jim, steadily, "I love you. That is why it will be the kindest thing on your part never to be kind to me again." As Jim spoke, Dora gazed up at him in a surprised, half-frightened manner. When she said "Why?" she knew very well that there was no need on her part to ask such a question. Her woman’s instinct told her "why"; there was no need for Jim to do so. But, with a wilful disregard of conscience, which bade her not inquire too closely into Jim’s reasons for that little speech, she had allowed her lips to shape the word that had extracted so blunt a confession from her companion. Even had she not been engaged to Jefferson, Jim’s avowal, considering the length of their acquaintance and the very small amount of conversation they had enjoyed together, would have been ill-timed and premature. As matters stood, Jim had no possible right to speak thus. But she had asked "Why?" and he had told her. Jim himself, as soon as he had spoken, condemned himself for a fool, an ass, and an idiot. This would put an end to any little friendship that might have hitherto existed between them. What could he do to mend the sorry mistake his tongue had made? He was the first to break the awkward silence. He laughed. Dora, on the other hand, bit her lip nervously. "Please don’t take me too seriously, Miss Dora," said Jim. "So," said Dora, confronting him with dignity and flaming cheeks, "I am to regard what you said just now as a joke?" "Well--if you like," replied Jim, rather awkwardly. "Then I think you are very rude!" exclaimed Dora, "and I won’t speak to you again." She turned abruptly toward the steps leading up to the door of No. 9.