induced this communion that I did not see how he was to approach it, but somehow he found his way back, though not with perfect ease, for I saw my young mistress move her chair in her embarrassment. "And May," he said, "during all these years, while you were growing and blooming, my mind dwelt upon you--and but for you, I don't think that I should have cared to live--" "Why, Brother George," she broke in, "what are you saying?" "May, listen to me a moment. Don't call me brother--call me George. Wait a moment, please." There was a flouncing of her skirts and I thought that she must have been getting out of the rocking chair. "You look frightened when, indeed, this should be as quiet as the time when you say your prayers. May, I am no longer as poor a man as I was--" "But, brother, has anyone reproached you with your poverty?" she asked. "There you go, calling me brother again. Not lately, but in the past, yes. I have eaten the bitter bread of the dependent--" "Don't say that," she protested. "Did you invite me here to tell me this? Tell me more of your adventures?" "May, you are not a child." "Well, no," she laughed. "I am really getting along in years. I am much older than Bob, and you know he is nearly a man now." "We are all getting along in years," he replied. "Time is cutting the pigeon wing. But now let me talk seriously to you. Your memory of my devotion to your sister Lou must still be fresh, and God knows I loved her, but May, my love for you is greater, passes all understanding, and I ask you to be my wife." He was leaning toward her, for his hands came down within the sweep of my vision. It was some time before she replied, and I lay there waiting, my heart beating loud. He had so impressed her that she was seeking to frame a graceful answer. Could it be that she was thinking of accepting him? She got out of the chair and her skirts whisked about as if she had turned toward the door. I lost sight of the doctor's hand and I saw his feet move. "May, please don't go!" he pleaded. "Doctor Bates," she said, "you insult me and the memory of my sister. I am going to marry a man that I love and that you hate, although you have seen him but once." "You don't mean John Marston, of New Orleans?" he almost cried. "Yes, I do. I am going to marry him." "May, if you do I will shoot him." She laughed. "Oh, you might kill him if called to attend him, doctor, but you will not shoot him." "I will pass your insults, Miss. One more moment, please? Does your mother know about it?" "I have honored you first, Doctor. See what confidence I have in you? I have made my own choice and have consulted no one. Perhaps it might have been better if my poor sister had done the same." "You shall not insult me this way. I'll call your father." "Do, puppy."