"No," said Jerce, steadily, "never again, until I have the right to call you Clarice." "What right? No, no! that's a foolish question," she added hurriedly. "Doctor, doctor, do not put your feelings into words. Let things remain as they are. Help Ferdy and cure Uncle Henry, and then--" "And then?" he bent forward eagerly. "Then I shall ask you to dance at my wedding," replied the girl, and fairly ran out of the room. Jerce was so determined that she could scarcely avoid hearing him speak plainer than she wished. And if he did speak out, the answer her emotion would force her to give him, would inevitably create a disagreeable feeling, if not a positive breach of friendship. This was not to be thought of, as Jerce was necessary both to help poor weak Ferdy Baird, and to cure Henry Horran of his mysterious disease. Discretion, as Clarice rightly thought, was the better part of valour in this especial instance, and therefore she deliberately ran away. Jerce was left alone. Naturally, he thought that he was unobserved, and the watcher at the window could see the various expressions which chased each other across his usually calm face. Judging from these, Jerce was annoyed that he had spoken so inopportunely. The fruit was not yet ripe, as he reflected, after recalling the few words he and Clarice had exchanged. First, he would have to bring Ferdy back to the paths of virtue; well, what then? Clarice might--on the other hand she might not. Certainly, she had laughed away his leading question, but also she had invited him to dance at her wedding--also laughingly. No! there could be no one else, and if Jerce saved the two men in which she was most interested, she might reward him by loving him, as he wished to be loved. Thanks to the gossip of Mrs. Dumps, the watcher at the window knew well that Jerce was dwelling in a fool's paradise, but it was not his intention, or will, to inform Jerce of the gunner officer at Gattlinsands, five miles away by the seashore.