Before Mary could stop her she had left the room and was on her way downstairs. Mary followed a moment later. She had not expected a visit from Crawford, who had called already that week. She wondered why he had come. She found him in the parlor. Mrs. Wyeth was out shopping with Miss Pease, and he and she were alone. He rose to meet her as she entered. “Why, Crawford,” she said, “what is the matter? Has anything happened? Why do you look so serious?” He smiled ruefully. “I guess because I am rather serious,” he answered. “I've had some news and I came to tell you about it.” Then, noticing her gown, he added: “But you're going out, aren't you?” “I am going out by and by. I am going to dine and spend the evening with Barbara Howe. But I am not going yet. Won't you sit down?” “I will if you're sure you can spare the time. I hope you can, because--well, because I do want to talk to you. I've had bad news from home. My father is ill--and in the doctor's care.” “Oh, I'm so sorry. I hope it isn't serious.” “I don't know whether it is or not. It can't be desperately serious, because he wrote the letter himself. But at any rate it's serious enough for me. He wants me to give up my work here at the Harvard Medical and come West.” Mary gasped. “Give it up!” she repeated. “Give up your studies? Give up medicine? Surely he doesn't want you to do that!” Crawford shook his head. “No, not quite that,” he replied. “I wouldn't do that, even for him. But he writes that he is not well and is not likely to be better for a good while, if ever, and he would be very much happier if I were nearer at hand. He wants me to give up here at the Harvard Med. and take up my work again at Denver or Salt Lake City or somewhere out there. Even Chicago would seem much nearer, he says. It's a pitiful sort of letter. The old chap seems dreadfully down in the dumps. He wants me, that's plain enough, and he seems to think he needs me. Says if I were at Denver I could come home every little while, whereas here I can't. What ought I to do? I hate to say no, and I hate just as much to say yes.” Mary considered. “I think you must decide for yourself,” she said after a moment. “You have your career to consider, of course.” “Yes, I have. But, to be perfectly honest, I suppose my career would not be influenced greatly if I went. There are plenty of good medical colleges in the West. It is only that I am a Harvard man and I hoped to finish at the Harvard school, that is all. But I COULD go. What do you advise?” Again Mary took time for consideration. Her face now was as grave as his. At last she said, without raising her eyes: “I think you ought to go.” He groaned. “I was afraid you would say that,” he admitted. “And I suppose you are right.” “Yes, I think I am. If your father needs you and wants you, and if your career will not be influenced for harm, I--well, I think you should do as he wishes.” “And my own wishes shouldn't count, I suppose?”