Her eyes looked straight into his, and there was a little muttered cry in them that smote his heart with pity. He had seen it in the faces of little children, his patients, who, though hurt, would not cry.
"And I am selfish enough to hope that in a few years, when you are old enough to choose, you will think of what I am doing now, and know the sacrifice I am making, and come to me of your own free will—no, I did not intend to say that—I do not mean what I said—the world is yours, Pearl, to choose as you will—I have no claim on you! You start fair."
Pearl's cheeks had lost a little of their rosy glow, and her face had taken on a cream whiteness. She stood up and looked at him, with widely opened eyes. A girl of smaller soul might have misunderstood him, and attributed to him some other motive. Though Pearl did not agree with him, she believed every word he had said.
"Supposing," she said eagerly, "that I do not want to start fair—and don't want to be free to choose—supposing I have made my choice—supposing I understand you better than you do yourself, and tell you now that you are not a second-hand doctor—that you are a sun and a shield to this little town and country, just as you have been to me—you bring health and courage by your presence—the people love and trust you—suppose I remind you that you are not only a doctor, but the one that settles their quarrels and puts terror into the evil-doer. Who was it that put the fear into Bill Plunkett when he blackened his wife's eyes, and who was it that brought in the two children from the Settlement, that were abused by their step-father, and took the old ruffian's guns away from him and marched him in too! That's a job for a second-rate doctor, isn't it? I hear the people talking about you, and I have to turn my back for fear they hear my eyes shouting out, 'That's my man you're praising' and here he is, telling me he is a second-rate doctor! Is that what you were when the fever was so bad, and all the Clarke's had it at once, and you nursed six of them through it? Mrs. Clarke says the only undressing you did was to loosen your shoe-laces!"
"Don't you see—I know you better than you do yourself. You don't see how big your work is. Is it a small thing to live six years in a place and have every one depending on you, praising you—loving you—and being able to advise them and lead the young fellows anyway you like—making men of them, instead of street loafers—and their mothers so thankful they can hardly speak of it."
"You evidently don't know what we think of you, any of us—and here I am—I don't know when it began with me—the first day I saw you—I think, when I was twelve—I've been worshipping you and treasuring up every word you ever said to me. I don't know whether it is love or not, it's something very sweet. It has made me ambitious to look my best, do my best and be my best. I want to make you proud of me—I will make you proud of me—see if I don't—I want to be with you, to help you, look after you—grow up with you—I don't know whether it is love or not—it—is something! There is nothing too hard for me to do, if it is for you—everything—any thing would be sweet to me—if you were with me. Is that love?"
She was standing before him, holding his hand in both of hers, and her eyes had the light in them, the tender, glowing light that seemed to flame blue at the edges, like the coal fire he had watched the night before.
Impulsively he drew her to him, and for a moment buried his face in her warm, white neck, kissing the curling strands of her brown hair.
"O Pearl," he cried, drawing away from her, "O Pearl—you're a hard girl to give up—you make me forget all my good resolutions. I don't want to do what I ought to do. I just want you."
There was a smothered cry in his voice that smote on Pearl's heart with a sudden fear. Mothers know the different notes in their children's cries—and in Pearl, the maternal instinct was strong.