She really wished very much to be alone with her grief, but she felt somehow that to shrink from a meeting would be an evasion of the path of duty she had marked out for her feet to tread. If she were going to eliminate all thoughts of her love and her lover from her life, there was no better time to begin than now, while her resolution was fresh. She insisted upon the Doctor remaining, and he did so. Conscious that her embarrassment had been noticed, her self-possession did not return quickly enough to prevent her falling into the error of failing to ignore this, and she confusedly stumbled into an explanation: “I have received a letter from home which contains news that disturbs me.” This was as far as she had expected to go. Dr. Denslow's face expressed a lively sympathy. “No one dead or seriously ill, I trust.” “No, not as bad as that,” she answered hastily, in the first impulse of fear that she had unwarrantably excited his sympathy. “Nor is it anything connected with property,” she hastily added, as she saw the Doctor looked inquiringly, but as though fearing that further questioning might be an indelicate intrusion. She picked nervously at the engagement ring which Harry had placed upon her finger. It fitted closely, and resisted her efforts at removal. she felt, when it was too late, that neither this nor its significance had escaped Dr. Denslow's eyes. “A f-riend--an--acquaintance of mine has disgraced himself,” she said, with a very apparent effort. An ordinary woman would have broken down in a tearful tempest, but as has been said before she was denied that sweet relief which most women find in a readily responsive gush of tears. Her eyes became very dry and exceedingly hot. Her misery was evident. The Doctor took her hand with a movement of involuntary sympathy. “I am deeply hurt to see you grieve,” he said, “and I wish that I might say something to alleviate your troubles. Is it anything that you can tell me about?” “No, it is nothing of which I can say a word to any one,” she answered. “It is a trouble that I can share with no one, and least of all with a stranger.” “am I not more than a stranger to you?” he asked. “O yes, indeed,” she said, and hastening to correct her former coldness, added: “You are a very dear, good friend, whom I value much more highly than I have given you reason to think.” His face brightened wonderfully, but he adventured his way slowly. “I am very glad that you esteem me what I have tried to show myself during our acquaintance.” “You have indeed shown yourself a very true friend. I could not ask for a better one.” “Then will you not trust me with a share of your sorrows, that I may help you bear them?” “No, no; you can not. Nobody can do anything in this case but myself.” “You do not know. You do not know what love can accomplish when it sets itself to work with the ardor belonging to it.”