“I haven't made any definite plans as yet,” he said. “I have another year at the Medical School--or should have it. I am hoping that I may be able to go back to the Harvard Med. here in Boston and work my way through. Other chaps have done it and I'm sure I can. And after that--well, after that I must take my chance at finding a location and a practice, like any other young M.D. But first of all, Mary, I want you to tell me that you will wait for me. It's a lot to ask; I know how much. But will you, Mary dear? That's what I've come here for--to get you to say that you will. After that I can face anything--yes, and win out, too.” Mary looked at him. His face was aglow with earnestness and his voice shook as he finished speaking. He rose and held out his hands. “Will you, Mary?” he begged. She looked at him no longer. She was afraid to do so--afraid of her own weakness. But no sign of that weakness showed itself in her tone as she answered. “I'm sorry, Crawford,” she said, gently. “I wish I could, but I can't.” “Can't! Can't wait for me?” “I could wait for you, it isn't that. If it were merely a question of waiting--if that were all--how easy it would be! But it isn't. Crawford, you must go back to your father. You must go back to him and forget all about me. You must.” He stared at her for a moment. Then he laughed. “Forget you!” he repeated. “Mary, are you--” “Oh, please, Crawford! Don't make this any harder for both of us than it has to be. You must go back to your father and you must forget me. I can not marry you, I can't.” He came toward her. “But, Mary,” he cried, “I--I--Of course I know you can't--now. I know how you feel about your duty to your uncles. I know they need you. I am not asking that you leave them. I ask only that you say you will wait until--until by and by, when--” “Please, Crawford! No, I can't.” “Mary! You--Oh, but you must say it! Don't tell me you don't love me!” She was silent. He put his hands upon her shoulders. She could feel them tremble. “Don't you love me, Mary?” he repeated. “Look up! Look at me! DON'T you love me?” She did not look up, but she shook her head. “No, Crawford,” she said. “I'm afraid not. Not enough.” She heard him catch his breath, and she longed--Oh, how she longed!--to throw her arms about him, tell him that it was all a lie, that she did love him. But she forced herself not to think of her own love, only of those whom she loved and what disgrace and shame and misery would come upon them if she yielded. “Not enough?” she heard him repeat slowly. “You--you don't love me? Oh, Mary!” She shook her head. “I am sorry, Crawford,” she said. “I can't tell you how sorry. Please--please don't think hardly of me, not too hardly. I wish--I wish it were different.” Neither spoke for a moment. Then he said: “I'm afraid I don't understand. Is there someone else?” “Oh, no, no! There isn't anyone.” “Then--But you told me--You have let me think--”