“Oh, yes; I have thought of you often, Dr. Stapleton,” said Mary, gently. “But I have thought of you every day, and in spite of myself. I have tried to forget you, because I have feared that you could not return my love; but I cannot help myself—there is no other woman in the world for me.” Mary’s eyes filled with tears, for she was so sorry for him. She had feared this all along, and yet had hoped she might be mistaken. She liked the Doctor so much too—but that was all. “It is very good of you to care for me,” she said, “after all that has happened; but I am sorry you do, because I can never be married. It would not be right.” The Doctor misunderstood her, and answered angrily, “Why is it not right, when Greenholme has been married all this time?” “I was not thinking of him, but of myself. I have my work here, and am quite content. It is not every woman who desires to be married, or who ought to take upon herself the responsibilities of a home. I have chosen a different lot from many, but it is my own deliberate choice, and I cannot go back from it.” “Pardon me,” said the Doctor, “it is a very unnatural choice. I think the real truth must be, not that you cannot love, but that you do not care for me. Your occupation is a noble one, but you would not be prevented from doing the same kind of work if you were happily married. Is not much of the philanthropic work of the time done by women whose hearts are large enough to take in the whole world, and yet are true to one?” But Mary did not wish to pursue that inquiry. “It is of no use, Doctor,” she said, “you must accept my decision as final.” Dr. Stapleton did not feel that he could do so, but he judged it better to say no more. He had still his work, and since the burden of his brother’s affairs had been lifted from his shoulders, he was much more happy than before. Moreover, he was trying to live down the unreasonable prejudice of the people, who quite believed that there was something wrong about him. Considering all the circumstances of his life, he was not in a despairing mood when the train that carried him moved out of the station, and he smiled back pleasantly into the merry face of Miss Tom Whitwell, and waved her a farewell, which was also a congratulation upon her extended holiday. “I am sorry they have not seen Mr. Knight,” said Tom; “it would have made their visit much more pleasant.” “And yours too,” agreed Mary, glancing at the brown face of her friend; “perhaps he will return before you leave, Tom. I wish he may, but he is very busy just now. Father had a letter from him this morning; but it was only a short one, and full of his hopes about the new General Election, which is coming. He did not say when he would be back, but we may hope it will be soon.”