“It’s too bad of you,” she told me, “when I have explained to you how sensitive Maizie is, and how she has the idea that nice men do not like her, that you should go and confirm her in the feeling by treating her so! Why don’t you like her?” “I do,” was all I said. “No, you don’t,” she denied indignantly. “I suppose men dislike fine women because they make them feel what poor things they are themselves!” “I like you, Miss Blodgett,” I replied. “I don’t believe it,” she retorted, “or you would be nice to my best friend. Besides, the idea of mentioning me in the same breath as Maizie! Men are born geese.” “Then you should pity rather than upbraid us,” I suggested. “I’ll tell you what I intend to do,” went on Agnes. “You promised us a visit this summer, and I am going to arrange for Maizie to be there at the time, so that you can really get to know her. And then, if you don’t like her, I’ll never forgive you.” “Now, Agnes,” ordered Mrs. Blodgett crossly, “stop teasing the doctor. I’m fond of Maizie, but I’m fairly tired with men falling in love with her, and I am glad to find one who hasn’t.” All last spring and summer, as I toiled over the proof sheets of my history, I was waiting and dreaming of that promised fortnight with you. I was so eager in my hope that when I found Agnes at the station, it was all I could do not to make my greeting a question whether you were visiting them. Luckily, she was almost as eager as I was, and hardly was I seated in the trap when she announced,— “Mamma wanted to ask you when we were alone, and wouldn’t hear at first of even Maizie being with us; but I told papa of my plan, and he insisted that Maizie should be invited. Wasn’t he an old love? And now, Dr. Hartzmann, you’ll try to like Maizie, won’t you? And even if you can’t, just pretend that you do, please.” If the groom had not mounted the rumble at this point, I believe I should have told her of my love for you, the impulse was so strong, in my gratitude and admiration for the unselfish love she had for you.