"No; I thought not. All busy, and with serious cases,--'long jobs,' as the 'regulars' call them. You see Fate and my self-will are against you--and I must go; so that's settled. And now, Mr. Doctor, let me make my report."
"This was your last visit to Louise, I think?" he asked absently.
"My last regular visit. She is quite well now; but I shall never lose sight of her, I hope. She is a good girl and a grateful; and so long as she has this illness, and I have Martigny to talk about and the same rescuer to praise--though she little knows how small an item in the account between him and me Martigny is--we are not likely to tire of each other's company. Where are your wits wandering to? you are not listening to a word I am saying to you."
He turned his face fully towards her, and the serious expression it bore increased. He took an ivory paper-knife from off his desk, and beat it softly upon his open palm as he spoke.
"My wits are wandering to speculations about you, my dear. How long are you going to lead this life? and when am I to know the meaning of it all? It is not fit for you, Katharine; you must rest."
"No, no," she said nervously; "you know the only thing I cannot do when you bid me, is rest. Besides, I am going to be very quiet, you know, down in Brittany----"
"That will not be for long, if even I let you go. My poor old mother's life is nearly ended; and then----"
"And then--for I mean to go; it is quite settled---are there no more duties for me? are the poor and the sick to cease out of the land?"
"No, it is not that; I am thinking of you seriously, Katharine, and wondering whether I am doing right by you. I had no doubt, when you came to me, and claimed the fulfilment of the promise I made to you at Martigny--there was such desperation, such utter self-abandonment about you--that I, who knew the symptoms of despair, and their deadliness, could not hesitate about what was to be done. But now, Katharine, now, has not time made any difference?--it has made a great alteration in you, my dear--a very great and blessed change; not time alone, I know, but life and suffering and self-knowledge, and a higher wisdom still--has it not changed circumstances too? You told me your return to your husband's home was an impossibility then; and I knew, I felt it was so. You never told me why; you never placed the secret of his sin, whatever it may have been, in my possession. Now I ask you--the matter has been pressing long upon my mind, and is daily growing heavier--is the same impossibility in force still?"
Katharine did not make any answer, but she looked at him, pale and tearful. Then he continued: