Mary said not a word to him about the letter; but, keeping silent on the subject, she felt wretchedly estranged from him.  ’Is anything the matter, Mary?’ he said to her on the Sunday afternoon.

‘No, uncle,’ she answered, turning away her head to hide her tears.

‘Ah, but there is something; what is it, dearest?’

‘Nothing—­that is, nothing that one can talk about.’

’What Mary!  Be unhappy and not to talk about it to me?  That’s something new, is it not?’

’One has presentiments sometimes, and is unhappy without knowing why.  Besides, you know—­’

’I know!  What do I know?  Do I know anything that will make my pet happier?’ and he took her into his arms and they sat together on the sofa.  Her tears were now falling fast, and she no longer made an effort to hide them.  ’Speak to me, Mary; this is something more than a presentiment.  What is it?’

‘Oh, uncle—­’

‘Come, love, speak to me; tell me why you are grieving.’

’Oh, uncle, why have you not spoken to me?  Why have you not told me what to do?  Why have you not advised me?  Why are you always so silent?’

‘Silent about what?’

‘You know, uncle; silent about him; silent about Frank.’

Why, indeed?  What was he to say to this?  It was true that he had never counselled her; never shown her what course she should take; had never even spoke to her about her lover.  And it was equally true that he was not now prepared to do so, even in answer to such an appeal as this.  He had a hope, a strong hope, more than a hope, that Mary’s love would yet be happy; but he could not express or explain his hope; nor could he even acknowledge to himself a wish that would seem to be based on the death of him to whose life he was bound, if possible, to preserve.

‘My love,’ he said, ’it is a matter in which you must judge for yourself.  Did I doubt your conduct, I should interfere; but I do not.’

’Conduct!  Is conduct everything?  One may conduct oneself excellently, and yet break one’s heart.’

This was too much for the doctor; his sternness and firmness instantly deserted him.  ‘Mary,’ he said, ’I will do anything that you would have me.  If you wish it, I will make arrangements for leaving this place at once.’

‘Oh, no,’ she said, plaintively.

’When you tell me of a broken heart, you almost break my own.  Come to me, darling; do not leave me so.  I will say all that I can say.  I have thought, do still think, that circumstances will admit of your marriage with Frank if you both love each other, and can both be patient.’

‘You think so,’ said she, unconsciously sliding her hand into his, as though to thank him by its pressure for the comfort he was giving her.

’I do think so now more than ever.  But I only think so; I have been unable to assure you.  There, darling, I must not say more; only that I cannot bear to see you grieving, I would not have said this:’  and then he left her, and nothing more was spoken on the subject.