I don't know how you came here. I wouldn't have had
you hear that for the world, but since you have, dear girl, you must be
told that it isn't your friendship or your kindness Freckles wants; it
is your love."
The Angel looked straight into the great surgeon's eyes with her clear,
steady orbs of blue, and then into McLean's with unwavering frankness.
"Well, I do love him," she said simply.
McLean's arms dropped helplessly.
"You don't understand," he reiterated patiently. "It isn't the love of
a friend, or a comrade, or a sister, that Freckles wants from you; it
is the love of a sweetheart. And if to save the life he has offered
for you, you are thinking of being generous and impulsive enough to
sacrifice your future--in the absence of your father, it will become
my plain duty, as the protector in whose hands he has placed you, to
prevent such rashness. The very words you speak, and the manner in which
you say them, prove that you are a mere child, and have not dreamed what
love is."
Then the Angel grew splendid. A rosy flush swept the pallor of fear
from her face.
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