“I know,” said Mary, the tears dropping down her face.
“He told you?” asked the Doctor.
She nodded.
“Well,” resumed the Doctor, “those may not be his words precisely, but it’s what they meant to me. And I said I’d do it. But I shall need assistance. I’m a medical practitioner. I attend the sick. But I see a great deal of other sorts of sufferers; and I can’t stop for them.”
“Certainly not,” said Mary, softly.
“No,” said he; “I can’t make the inquiries and investigations about them and study them, and all that kind of thing, as one should if one’s help is going to be help. I can’t turn aside for all that. A man must have one direction, you know. But you could look after those things”—
“I?”
“Certainly. You could do it just as I—just as John—would wish to see it done. You’re just the kind of person to do it right.”
“O Doctor, don’t say so! I’m not fitted for it at all.”
“I’m sure you are, Mary. You’re fitted by character and outward disposition, and by experience. You’re full of cheer”—