Euphrasia looked up again, quite involuntarily, to meet his gaze of kind enquiry. To her utter horror, she found her eyes suddenly full; nay, worse than full, actually overflowing. Two great drops fell, clear and visible, despite all she could do. Euphrasia felt as if she could gladly have sunk into the floor of the compartment. "Ah, I was afraid that the journey might be rather too much for you," said Mr. Wells, with no appearance of surprise. "You are not strong yet. Never mind; a good rest by-and-by will put it all right." He bent forward, and continued—"Do you think that some day I might venture to find my way to your home? I have your West Norton address." The reserve on which Euphrasia was wont to pride herself scarcely served in the present emergency. It was impossible that the doctor should fail to see the change in her face. "Oh do!" she said eagerly. "Oh do!" Then alarmed at her own delight—"I am sure—quite sure—they would all be so glad. My father—" "Your father would not object?" "O no, indeed!" "And would you be, perhaps, just a slight degree pleased too—yourself?" The train was slackening outside the station, not yet at the platform. A minute or two remained. Euphrasia could only say shyly—"O yes!" Adding after a pause—"You have been so good to me." "Do you think you could let me go on being 'good' to you?" Robert had not intended to say more at present. In fact, he had very nearly come to a settled conclusion never to say anything more at all because Miss Mackenzie so evidently regarded him from nothing more nor less than the professional point of view. But her sudden and unmistakable distress put a new face on matters, and severely shook his resolution. Suppose, after all, that he were mistaken—that she did care? "I almost thought, last week, that your one wish was to see nothing more of any of us!" "Oh, how could—" Euphrasia broke off in confusion. "How could I think so? People misread one another sometimes. Perhaps I fancied you would have understood better—have seen intuitively how things really were!" Robert Wells looked out of the window, but the train remained motionless. Half-a-minute passed in silence. Then an impulse seized him, too strong to be restrained, and he spoke again:— "Euphrasia, could you make up your mind to be a doctor's wife? Will you be mine?" Euphrasia almost gasped for breath. The utmost for which she had definitely craved was that some day they might meet again, that this parting should not be a parting for always. She had wanted him still for a friend. But—to be his wife! Did he mean it? Had she grasped his words in their true sense? The train began to move. "We are just there," said Wells, gently. "I don't want to hurry you. Shall I come to West Norton for an answer in two or three days? That would give you time?" "O no!" Euphrasia, crimson and confused, hardly knew what she said. "No!" The doctor's face fell. He might be excused for not understanding.