"An amateur?" I repeated, dully.

"I mean no reflection upon your abilities," she explained, hurriedly. "I
know all that you have done in London and in Edinburgh, and these German
places. You can tack more than half the letters of the alphabet after
your name if you choose to. But I don't quite see what you are doing in
New York."

"You wrote that you were coming to study nursing here," I reminded her.
"This is now a great centre of scientific research, thanks to the
princely endowments of the universities. Have you the slightest notion of
how many years I have loved you, Dora?"

"Not quite so loud," she reproved me. "I believe it began in dear old St.
John's. You were about fourteen when you declared your passion, and I
wore pigtails and exceedingly short skirts. My legs, also, were the
spindliest things."

"Yes, that was the beginning, Dora, and it has continued ever since.
During the years I spent abroad we kept on writing. It seemed to me that
the whole thing was settled. I've always had your pictures with me; the
first was little Dora, and the other one was taken when you first did
your hair up and wore long dresses. During all that time St. John's was
the garden of the Hesperides, and you were the golden thing I was toiling
for. When you wrote that you were coming to New York I took the next boat
over. Then you told me I must wait until you graduated. And now, after
your commencement, I hoped, indeed I hoped--I'm afraid I'm worrying you,
dear."