Instead of coming to her side and promising all that his heart prompted, the miserable constraint of his position led him to turn from grief that he was no longer able to witness.  He went to the window, and, bowing his head against the sash, looked out into the darkness.

She regarded him with wonder as she slowly wiped her eyes.

“Mr. Arnold,” she faltered, “I hope you will forgive me for my weakness, and also for inflicting our troubles on you.”

He turned and came slowly toward her.  She saw that he trembled and almost tottered as he walked, and that his face had become ashen.  The hand he gave her seemed like ice to her warm, throbbing palm.  But never could she forget his expression—­the blending of self-contempt, pitiable weakness, and dejection.

“Miss Mildred,” he said slowly, “there is no use in disguises.  We had better both recognize the truth at once.  At least it will be better for you, for then you may find a friend more worthy of the name.  Can you not see what I am—­a broken reed?  The vine could better sustain a falling tree than I the one I loved, even though, like the vine, my heart clung to that one as its sole support.  You suffer; I am in torment.  You are sad; I despair.  You associate strength and help with manhood, and you are right.  You do not know that the weakest thing in the world is a weak, helpless man.  I am only strong to suffer.  I can do nothing; I am nothing.  It would be impossible for me to explain how helpless and dependent I am—­you could not understand it.  My whole heart went out to you, for you seemed both gentle and strong.  The hope would grow in my soul that you might be merciful to me when you came to know me as I am.  Good-by, Millie Jocelyn.  You will find a friend strong and helpful as well as kind.  As for me, my best hope is to die.”  He bowed his head upon the hand he did not venture to kiss, and then almost fled from the house.

Mildred was too much overcome by surprise and feeling to make any attempt to detain him.  He had virtually acknowledged his love for her, but never in her wildest fancy had she imagined so dreary and sad a revelation.

Mrs. Jocelyn, perplexed by Mr. Arnold’s abrupt departure, came in hastily, and Mildred told her, with many tears, all that had been said.  Even her mother’s gentle nature could not prevent harsh condemnation of the young man.

“So he could do nothing better than get up this little melodrama, and then hasten back to his elegant home,” she said, with a darkening frown.

Mildred shook her head and said, musingly, “I understand him better than you do, mamma, and I pity him from the depths of my heart.”

“I think it’s all plain enough,” said Mrs. Jocelyn, in a tone that was hard and unnatural in her.  “His rich parents tell him that he must not think of marrying a poor girl, and he is the most dutiful of sons.”