We will not attempt to follow Mildred’s thoughts as she tried to keep up through the long hours.  The murmured words, “I would watch more patiently over Vinton Arnold, did not his proud mother stand between us,” suggests the character of some of them.  At last, when she was faint from weariness, she heard steps coming up the stairs, and her mother entered, followed by Mrs. Wheaton.

“My dear, brave child, this is too much for you.  I’d rather it had been myself a thousand times,” Mrs. Jocelyn exclaimed.

“It’s all right, mamma, but the sight of you and good Mrs. Wheaton is more welcome than I can tell you, for I was getting very lonely and tired.”

“I’ll stay now hand tend ter heverything,” said Mrs. Wheaton, with a stout, cheery kindness that could not be disguised even in her whisper; but Clara awoke with a start and said, “What is it, momsy?”

Then she sprang up, and after a brief glance at her mother threw herself with a long, low cry on the lifeless form.

“Leave hall ter me,” said Mrs. Wheaton decidedly, “hand take Miss Jocelyn ’ome, for this’ll be too much for ’er.”

“Ah, mamma dear,” sobbed Mildred, “my heart would be broken indeed if that were you.”

“Millie, if you love me, come home at once,” Mrs. Jocelyn urged.  It was quite light when they gained the street, and after reaching home Mildred was given a warm cup of tea, and left to sleep until late in the day.  While she slept, however, there occurred some rather stirring scenes.

Belle, too, slept rather late, but a portentous gloom came into her eyes when told that Mrs. Bute was dead.  She did not say very much, but her young face grew older and very resolute while she hastily ate her breakfast.  Then she carried something nice to Clara, and found that Mrs. Wheaton had left, a neighbor from the tall tenement having taken her place.

Belle looked at the bereaved girl with half-fearful eyes as if she expected reproaches, and when Clara kissed her in greeting she said “Don’t” so sharply as to excite surprise.

“Belle,” said Clara gently, “mother’s at rest.”

“That’s more than I am,” muttered the girl.  “Oh, Clara, I didn’t mean to bring all this trouble on you.  That man just caught me in a trap.”

“Belle, Belle! why do you blame yourself for all this?  It would have come just the same, and probably just as soon, and if it hadn’t been for you I’d been alone, with no friends and no hope.”

“Oh, don’t talk to me!” Belle cried; “your mother might have been alive if I hadn’t taken your place.  I want to see her.”

Clara turned back the covering, and the young girl looked at the dead face with a stern, frowning brow.

“Starved!” she muttered.  “I understand why they all looked so black at me now; but why couldn’t some one have told me?  He shall know the truth for once; he’s more to blame than I,” and she abruptly departed.