"I knew that you walked by this road to the hospital. I have come here to meet you, Miss King."
Mary answered nothing. He continued, "I have come to see you, to speak to you. No, let us go this way," and he turned off into a road, which was not the direct one to the hospital, but which led through the neighbouring park, and was little frequented by pedestrians at that early hour, so afforded opportunity for undisturbed conversation.
They walked on side by side for some minutes without either speaking.
"Mary!" then said the doctor—"you must let me call you Mary, even if I am only to be your friend—I have so longed to see you by yourself, to learn from your lips what my fate is to be!"
The girl walked firmly on, but with downcast eyes, hardly seeing whither she went, but guiding herself in some strange way by the consciousness of the one who walked by her side.
After a pause he continued: "Mary, you know that I love you. I must know—you must tell me—if it is altogether impossible for you to return that love."
"Altogether impossible," she replied, in a scarcely audible voice.
"Altogether!" he repeated after her in a dazed way. "Then I have nothing more to live for. Oh, pardon me, Miss King! Why should I speak to you of my happiness or misery? What a selfish being I am, even in my love for you? And yet I do not think that it is altogether selfish. I know that I would willingly endure endless misery if by that I could lighten your burden, my child. Mine is a love that, be it selfish or unselfish, fills my whole being. Oh, Mary! cannot you love me a little? I would so endeavour to make your life a happy one."
His voice was subdued, but full of profound tenderness, and it pierced Mary's heart with a sharp pain.