"Think better of what?" said he.

"Of this about the hospital,--of all this about Mr Harding,--of what
you say about those old men. Nothing can call upon you,--no duty can
require you to set yourself against your oldest, your best friend.
Oh, John, think of Eleanor. You'll break her heart, and your own."

"Nonsense, Mary; Miss Harding's heart is as safe as yours."

"Pray, pray, for my sake, John, give it up. You know how dearly you
love her." And she came and knelt before him on the rug. "Pray
give it up. You are going to make yourself, and her, and her father
miserable: you are going to make us all miserable. And for what? For
a dream of justice. You will never make those twelve men happier than
they now are."

"You don't understand it, my dear girl," said he, smoothing her hair
with his hand.

"I do understand it, John. I understand that this is a chimera,--a
dream that you have got. I know well that no duty can require you to
do this mad--this suicidal thing. I know you love Eleanor Harding
with all your heart, and I tell you now that she loves you as well.
If there was a plain, a positive duty before you, I would be the last
to bid you neglect it for any woman's love; but this--; oh, think
again, before you do anything to make it necessary that you and Mr
Harding should be at variance." He did not answer, as she knelt
there, leaning on his knees, but by his face she thought that he was
inclined to yield. "At any rate let me say that you will go to this