“Brave—courageous little woman,” he cried, ecstatically, “to tell me out like that! Forty-four!”
“Turned,” sobbed the little lady; “and I never thought now that anybody would talk to me like this.”
“I don’t care if you are fifty-four or sixty-four!” cried the little doctor excitedly. “I am not a youth, Mary. I’m fifty, my dear girl; and I’ve been so busy all my life, that, like our dear old Arthur, I have never even thought of such a thing as marriage. But since I have been over here—seen this quiet little home, made so happy by your clever hands—I have learned that, after all, I had a heart, and that if my dear old friend’s sweet sister would look over my faults, my age, my uncouth ways, I should be the happiest of men.”
“Pray—pray get up, doctor,” said Miss Rosebury sadly.
“Call me Harry, and I will,” he cried, gallantly.
“No, no!” she said, softly, and there was something so firm and gentle in her words that he rose at once, took the seat she pointed to by her side, and would have passed his arm round her shapely little waist, but she laid one hand upon his wrist and stayed him.
“No, Henry Bolter,” she said, firmly; “we are not boy and girl. Let us act like sensible, mature, and thoughtful folk.”
“My dear,” he said, and the tears stood in his eyes, “I respect and love you more and more. What is there that I would not do?”
She beamed upon him sweetly, and laid her hand upon his as they sat there side by side in silence, enjoying a few brief moments of the greatest happiness that had ever been their lot, and then the little lady spoke:
“Henry,” she said, softly, “my dear brother’s dearest friend—my dearest friend—do not think me wanting in appreciation of what you have said.”