Yes, Mildred was very ill.  Mrs. Brown was plainly worried.  Could he or his mother do anything to help?  No; only to lend their faith and prayers.  Would he come into the sick room to see her for a few minutes?  Yes, if she desired it.

Dorian followed the mother into the sick room.  Mildred lay well propped up by pillows in a bed white as snow.  She was thinner and paler than ever, eyes bigger, hair heavier and more golden.  When she saw Dorian, she smiled and reached out her hand, letting it lie in the big strong one.

“How are you?” she said, very low.

“Well and fine, and how are you?”

She simply shook her head gently and closed her eyes, seeming content to touch the strong young manhood beside her.  The mother went quietly from the room, and all became quite still.  Speech was difficult for the sick girl, and equally hard for the young man.  But he looked freely at the angel-like face on the pillow without rebuke from the closed eyes.  He glanced about the room, beautifully clean and airy.  All her books and her working material had been carried away as if she were through with them for good.  In a corner on an easel stood an unfinished copy of “Sunset in Marshland.”  Dorian’s eyes rested for a moment on the picture, and as he again looked at the girl, he saw a smile pass over the marble-like face.

That was all.  Presently, he left the room, and without many words, the house.

Each day after that Dorian managed to learn of the girl’s condition, though he did not go into the sick chamber.  On the sixth day word came to Dorian at school that Mildred was dying.  He looked about for Carlia to tell her, but she was nowhere to be found.  Dorian could not go home.  Mildred was dying!  The one girl—­yes, the only one in all the world who had looked at him with her heart in the look, was leaving the world, and him.  Why could she not live, if only for his sake?  He sat in the school room until all had gone, and he was alone with the janitor.  His open book was still before him, but he saw not the printed page.  Then the short winter day closed.  Dusk came on.  The janitor had finished sweeping the room and was ready to leave.  Dorian gathered up his books, put on his overcoat, and went out.  Mildred was dying!  Perhaps she was about to begin that great journey into the unknown.  Would she be afraid?  Would she not need a strong hand to help her?  “Mildred,” he whispered.

He walked on slowly up the street toward the Brown’s.  Darkness came on.  The light gleamed softly through the closed blinds of the house.  Everything was very still.  He did not try to be admitted, but paced back and forth on the other side of the street.  Back and forth he went for a long time, it seemed.  Then the front door opened, and the doctor passed out.  Mildred must either be better or beyond all help.  He wanted to ask the doctor, but he could not bring himself to intercept him.  The house remained quiet.  Some of the lights were extinguished.  Dorian crossed the street.  He must find out something.  He stood by the gate, not knowing what to do.  The door opened again, and a woman, evidently a neighbor, came out.  She saw the young man and stopped.