presently she'll break her heart and die for you. She'll never say a word, but that's what she'll do."
"Why, Doctor!" cried David, appalled. "I love her as my own life—my very soul."
"Of—of course. That goes without saying. We all do, we men, but we—damn it all! Do you suppose I've lived all these years and not seen? Why—we think of ourselves first every time. D—don't we, though? Rather!"
"But selfish as we are, we can love—a man can, if he sets himself to it honestly,—love a woman and make her happy, even without the appreciation of others, in spite of environment,—everything. It's the destiny of women to love us, thank God. She would have been doomed surely to die if she had married the one who wanted her first—or to live a life for her worse than death."
"Oh, Lord bless you, boy, yes. It's a woman's destiny. I'm an old fool. There—there's my own little girl, she's m—married and gone—gone to live in England. They will do it—the women will. Come, we'll go see Adam."
The doctor sprang up, brushed his hand across his eyes, and caught up a battered silk hat. He turned it about and looked at it ruefully, with a quizzical smile playing about the corners of his eyes. "Remember that hat?" he asked.
"Well do I remember it. You've driven many a mile in many a