opened door. He rose and closed it. Then he came close to her.

"Mary," he said, earnestly, "do you know why this appeal of Dad's has
hit me so very hard? Why it is going to be so mighty difficult to say
yes and leave here? It isn't because I hate to give up Harvard. I do
hate that, of course, but I'd do it in a minute for Dad. It isn't that.
It's because I can't--I just can't think of leaving you. You have come
to be--"

She interrupted. "Please don't," she begged. "Please!"

He went on, unheeding:

"You have come to mean about all there is in life for me," he declared.
"It isn't money or success or reputation I've been working and plugging
for these last few months; it's just you. I didn't think so once--I used
to think such things were just in books--but now I know. I love you,
Mary."

Again she protested. "Oh, Crawford," she begged, "please!"

"No; you've got to hear me. It's true; I love you, and if you can care
for me, I am going to marry you. Not now, of course; I've got my way to
make first; but some day, if I live."

His teeth set in the determined fashion she had learned to know meant
unswerving purpose. She looked up, saw the expression of his face, and
for the instant forgot everything except her pride in him and her joy
that she should have awakened such feelings. Then she remembered other
things, things which she had spent many hours of many nights in debating