"I don't think that's a nice way of earning a living, do you?" returned the girl. "Oh, I don't know," he answered. "Why not? It's our duty to relieve suffering, and these women are just suffering for a chance to describe all their imaginary ailments." "Women?" she cried, indignantly. "Are all these old fools women?" "There must be men sometimes, I suppose," he replied; "but most of a family physician's work is with the women, of course." Then it seemed to him that he saw before him the opportunity he had been awaiting. They were now climbing the hill at the northwestern corner of the Park. He slowed up so that she should not be tempted to overexert herself. He even went so far as to lag a little behind. When they began to go down again gently, he came alongside. "By the way," he began, "speaking of what a family physician has to do reminds me that I want to ask your advice." "My advice?" she echoed, with the light little laugh that thrilled through him always. "Why, I don't know anything about medicine." "It isn't a professional consultation I want," he answered, laughing himself, "it's friendly counsel. Don't you remember that when you told me you couldn't love me you went on to say you hoped we should always be good friends?" "Yes," she responded, calmly, "I remember that. And I hope that if I can really show any friendliness in any way, you will let me." "That's what I am coming to," he returned. "You know, I've been helping Dr. Cheever as a sort of third man while Dr. Aspinwall has been ill? Well, Dr. Aspinwall isn't getting any better, and he's got to quit for a year, anyhow. So Dr. Cheever is going to take me with him--" "Oh, I'm so glad!" she broke in, heartily. "That's splendid for you, isn't it?" "It will be splendid for me if I can keep the place and do the work to his satisfaction," he answered. "Oh, I guess Dr. Cheever knows what he is about," retorted the girl, gaily. "He knows how clever you are." "Thank you," the young man returned. "I felt sure you would be pleased, because you have always been so kind to me." He hesitated for a moment, and then continued: "I feel as if I owe you an apology--" "What for?" she asked, in surprise. "For the way I behaved last time we--we had a talk," he answered. "Oh, _then_," she commented; and it seemed to him that she had almost made an effort to retain the non-committal expression she was affecting. "You may remember," he went on, "that I asked you to marry me, and that you refused, and that you told me you didn't love me at all, but you did like me--" "What's the use of going over all that again?" she asked. "I must make myself right with you, Miss Minnie," he urged. "You said we could be friends, and I was all broke up then, and I didn't know just what I was saying, and I told you friendship wasn't any good to me, and if I couldn't have you there wasn't anything else I wanted. I must have been rude, indeed, and it has worried me ever since."