Crawford shook his head.  “No, not quite that,” he replied.  “I wouldn’t do that, even for him.  But he writes that he is not well and is not likely to be better for a good while, if ever, and he would be very much happier if I were nearer at hand.  He wants me to give up here at the Harvard Med. and take up my work again at Denver or Salt Lake City or somewhere out there.  Even Chicago would seem much nearer, he says.  It’s a pitiful sort of letter.  The old chap seems dreadfully down in the dumps.  He wants me, that’s plain enough, and he seems to think he needs me.  Says if I were at Denver I could come home every little while, whereas here I can’t.  What ought I to do?  I hate to say no, and I hate just as much to say yes.”

Mary considered.

“I think you must decide for yourself,” she said after a moment.  “You have your career to consider, of course.”

“Yes, I have.  But, to be perfectly honest, I suppose my career would not be influenced greatly if I went.  There are plenty of good medical colleges in the West.  It is only that I am a Harvard man and I hoped to finish at the Harvard school, that is all.  But I could go.  What do you advise?”

Again Mary took time for consideration.  Her face now was as grave as his.  At last she said, without raising her eyes:  “I think you ought to go.”

He groaned.  “I was afraid you would say that,” he admitted.  “And I suppose you are right.”

“Yes, I think I am.  If your father needs you and wants you, and if your career will not be influenced for harm, I—­well, I think you should do as he wishes.”

“And my own wishes shouldn’t count, I suppose?”

“Why, no, not in this case; not much, at any rate.  Do you think they should?”

“Perhaps not.  But—­but yours?”

“Mine?”

“Yes.  Do you want me to go away?” He leaned forward in his chair and repeated earnestly:  “Do you, Mary?”

She looked at him and her eyes fell before the look in his.  Her heart began to beat quickly and she glanced apprehensively toward the partly opened door.  He rose and closed it.  Then he came close to her.

“Mary,” he said, earnestly, “do you know why this appeal of Dad’s has hit me so very hard?  Why it is going to be so mighty difficult to say yes and leave here?  It isn’t because I hate to give up Harvard.  I do hate that, of course, but I’d do it in a minute for Dad.  It isn’t that.  It’s because I can’t—­I just can’t think of leaving you.  You have come to be—­”

She interrupted.  “Please don’t,” she begged.  “Please!”

He went on, unheeding: 

“You have come to mean about all there is in life for me,” he declared.  “It isn’t money or success or reputation I’ve been working and plugging for these last few months; it’s just you.  I didn’t think so once—­I used to think such things were just in books—­but now I know.  I love you, Mary.”