“I have just reached here from the station at Riverbank.  I went to the house first, and was just going to see Uncle at the shop, when I caught sight of you.”

Mark drew her arm within his own, and noticed, not without pleasure, how she yet trembled with agitation.

“I am very glad to see you,” said Mildred; “but isn’t your coming sudden?”

“Yes, I had some news from home yesterday which determined me to come, and I started this morning.”

“Quick and impetuous as ever!”

“Yes, I don’t deliberate long.”

There was a pause.

“I wish you had only been here to see father before he died.”

“I wish I might have seen him.”

“I am sure he would never have desired to put you to any trouble.”

“I suppose he would not have troubled me, though I never expected to do less than repay him the money he was so good as to lend me; but I don’t think he would have been so abrupt and peremptory as Squire Clamp.”

“Why, what has he done?”

“This is what he has done.  A lawyer’s clerk, as I supposed him to be, called upon me yesterday morning with a statement of the debt and interest, and made a formal demand of payment.  I had only about half the amount in bank, and therefore could not meet it.  Then the clerk appeared in his true character as a sheriff’s officer, drew out his papers, and served a writ upon me, besides a trustee process on the principal of the school, so as to attach whatever might be due to me.”

“Oh, Mark, were you treated so?”

“Just so,—­entrapped like a wild animal.  To be sure, it was a legal process, but one designed only for extreme cases, and which no gentleman ever puts in force against another.”

“I don’t know what this can mean.  Squire Clamp is cruel enough, I know; but mother, surely, would never approve such conduct.”

“After all, the mortification is the principal thing; for, with what I have, and what Uncle can raise for me, I can pay the debt.  I have said too much already, Mildred.  I don’t want to put any of my burdens on your little shoulders.  In fact, I am quite ashamed of having spoken on the subject at all; but I have so little concealment, that it popped out before I thought twice.”

They were approaching the house, both silent, neither seeming to be bold enough to touch the tenderer chords that thrilled in unison.

“Mildred,” said Mark, “I don’t know how much is meant by this suit.  I don’t know that I shall be able to see you again, unless it be casually, in the street, as to-night, (blessed accident!)—­but remember, that, whatever may happen, I am always the same that I have been to you.”

Here his voice failed him.  With such a crowd of memories,—­of hopes and desires yet unsatisfied,—­with the crushing burden of debt and poverty,—­ he could not command himself to say what his heart, nevertheless, ached in retaining.  Here he was, with the opportunity for which during all his boyhood he had scarcely dared to hope, and yet he was dumb.  They were at the gate, under the dense shade of the maples.