"I don't care if you are fifty-four or sixty-four!" cried the little doctor excitedly. "I am not a youth, Mary. I'm fifty, my dear girl; and I've been so busy all my life, that, like our dear old Arthur, I have never even thought of such a thing as marriage. But since I have been over here--seen this quiet little home, made so happy by your clever hands--I have learned that, after all, I had a heart, and that if my dear old friend's sweet sister would look over my faults, my age, my uncouth ways, I should be the happiest of men." "Pray--pray get up, doctor," said Miss Rosebury sadly. "Call me Harry, and I will," he cried, gallantly. "No, no!" she said, softly, and there was something so firm and gentle in her words that he rose at once, took the seat she pointed to by her side, and would have passed his arm round her shapely little waist, but she laid one hand upon his wrist and stayed him. "No, Henry Bolter," she said, firmly; "we are not boy and girl. Let us act like sensible, mature, and thoughtful folk." "My dear," he said, and the tears stood in his eyes, "I respect and love you more and more. What is there that I would not do?" She beamed upon him sweetly, and laid her hand upon his as they sat there side by side in silence, enjoying a few brief moments of the greatest happiness that had ever been their lot, and then the little lady spoke: "Henry," she said, softly, "my dear brother's dearest friend--my dearest friend--do not think me wanting in appreciation of what you have said." "I could never think your words other than the best," he said, tenderly; and the little lady bowed her head before resuming. "I will not be so foolish as to deny that in the past," she went on, "there have been weak times when I may have thought that it would be a happy thing for a man whom a woman could reverence and respect as well as love to come and ask me to be his wife." "As I would always strive to make you respect me, Mary," he said, softly; and he kissed her hand. "I know you would," she said, "but it cannot be." "Mary," he cried, pleadingly, "I have waited and weighed all this, and asked myself whether it was vanity that made me think your dear eyes lighted up and that you were glad to see me when I came." "You did not deceive yourself," she said, softly. "I was glad to see my dear brother's friend when he first came, and that gladness has gone on increasing until, I confess to you freely, it will come upon me like some great sadness when the time is here for you to go away." "Say that again," he cried, eagerly. "Why should I?" she said, sadly. "Then--then you do love me, Mary?" "I--I think so," she said, softly; and the little lady's voice was very grave; "but love in this world has often to give way to duty." "Ye-es," he said, dubiously; "but where two people have been waiting such a precious long time before they found out what love really is, it seems rather hard to be told that duty must stand first."