"Oh!" Miss Vesta sighed, as if she felt the hopelessness of fluttering her wings against the dead wall of masculinity before her; nevertheless she spoke up bravely.
"I have given you one reason already, James. It would be not only unseemly, but impossible, for me to leave my guest. But even without that, even if I were entirely alone, still I could not go. My duties; the house; my dear sister's ideas,—she always said a house could not be left for a month by the entire family without deteriorating in some way—though Diploma is most excellent, most faithful. Then,—it is a small matter, but—I have always cared for my seaward lamp in person. I have never been away, James, since—I first lighted the lamp. Then—"
"I am still waiting for a reason," said Doctor Stedman, grimly. "I have not heard what I call one yet."
The soft color rose in Miss Vesta's face, and she lifted her eyes to his with a look he had seen in them once or twice before.
"Then here is one for you, James," she said, quietly. "I do not wish to go!"
Doctor Stedman rose abruptly, and tramped up and down the room in moody silence. Miss Vesta sighed, and watched his feet. They were heavily booted, but—no, there were no nails in them, and the shining floor remained intact.
Suddenly he came to a stop in front of her.
"What if I carried you off, you inflexible little piece of porcelain?" he said. "What if—Vesta,—may I speak once more?"
"Oh, if you would please not, James!" cried Miss Vesta, a soft hurry in her voice, her cheeks very pink. "I should be so truly grateful to you if you would not. I am so happy in your friendship, James. It is such a comfort, such a reliance to me. Do not, I beg of you, my dear friend, disturb it."
"But—you are alone, child. If Phœbe had lived, I had made up my mind never to trouble you again. She is gone, and you are alone, and tired, and—I find it hard to bear, Vesta. I do indeed."