The doctor was silent and ill at ease.
She saw he had something weighty on his mind. "The air would have done
me no harm," said she.
"Neither will a few words with me."
"Oh, no, dear friend. Only I think I should have liked a little walk
this evening."
"Josephine," said the doctor quietly, "when you were a child I saved
your life."
"I have often heard my mother speak of it. I was choked by the croup,
and you had the courage to lance my windpipe."
"Had I?" said the doctor, with a smile. He added gravely, "It seems then
that to be cruel is sometimes kindness. It is the nature of men to love
those whose life they save."
"And they love you."
"Well, our affection is not perfect. I don't know which is most to
blame, but after all these years I have failed to inspire you with
confidence." The doctor's voice was sad, and Josephine's bosom panted.
"Pray do not say so," she cried. "I would trust you with my life."
"But not with your secret."
"My secret! What secret? I have no secrets."
"Josephine, you have now for full twelve months suffered in body and
mind, yet you have never come to me for counsel, for comfort, for an old
man's experience and advice, nor even for medical aid.
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