"What?" The word came like a pistol-shot.
"I have promised to marry Francis as soon as ever he is strong enough," she repeated composedly.
The doctor dropped into a chair. "No, no," he said huskily. "My dear, it won't do. You have been splendid. I did not think any woman could do what you have done; but—no one could expect this of you—it is too great a sacrifice. Sooner than that I will tell him the whole story. Eh! you're a brave woman, but it has got to stop here."
"On the contrary, it is only just beginning. And it is out of your hands now. I cannot let you interfere. Nor can I really let you take any of the responsibility. I made my own choice, and I am going to abide by it, I am going to marry him."
The doctor dropped his face into his hands. "You don't know what you are talking about. It is impossible. How can you marry a man you—don't—care for."
"No," she replied softly, "I could not marry a man I did not care for; but I love Francis with all my heart—and that makes all the difference, doesn't it?" she ended with a gentle laugh.
He rose to his feet, and coming to her, laid a kindly hand upon her shoulder. "You are sure of this?" he asked. "You are sure you are not carried away by your sense of pity?"
"I am certain."
"He is old enough to be your father—and he will never be strong."
"That makes no difference."