“Do you wish to discharge us, then?” was Dr. Benton’s brusque response.  He was a man of unusual skill, but blunt and unsympathetic, especially in cases wherein he suspected deception—­an element almost inseparable from the morphia habit.  The victim is almost invariably untruthful, and the family not unfrequently hide the whole truth in the desire to shield the disgraceful weakness.  Dr. Benton was too familiar with these facts to be easily moved, but when the sad-hearted wife clasped her hands and cried, in tones that would touch the coldest heart, “I wish him to live, for his death would be far worse than death to us all,” the physician said kindly, “There, there, Mrs. Jocelyn, I have seen many cases like this.  Your husband will live, and will soon be able to speak to you.  If you then can induce him to leave morphia alone, he may become as sound a man as ever.”

Mildred put her arm around her mother and drew her into her room, closing the door.

A few moments later Roger heard the wife’s passionate protest, “I do not believe it—­I will never believe it.”  Then Dr. Benton said to him, “Here, young man, run to my house for an electric battery.”

When he returned Mr. Jocelyn was coming slowly out of his deep coma, and his appearance was changing rapidly for the better.  There was a deep, indignant flush on Mrs. Jocelyn’s face, and she took Roger aside and said earnestly, “Never believe the lies you have heard here to-night.  I know that you will never repeat them.”

“Never, Mrs. Jocelyn.”

But Mildred was pale and almost stony in her cold, calm aspect; her heart, in her desperation, was hard toward every one.  Belle had not comprehended the truth at all, having been too much overwhelmed by her emotions to heed the earlier remarks of the physicians, and Mildred had said to them significantly and almost sternly, “There is no need of giving your diagnosis any further publicity.”

Dr. Benton had then looked at her more attentively, and muttered, “An unusual girl; more’s the pity.”

“Mr. Atwood,” Mildred began, a few moments after his entrance, “we thank you for your aid in this painful emergency, but we need trouble you no further.  Papa is rallying fast.  I will thank you to inform me of all the expense which you have incurred in our behalf at your earliest convenience.”

“Mildred,” interposed Mrs. Jocelyn, suddenly appearing from beside her husband’s couch, the unwonted fire still burning in her usually gentle eyes, “I cannot permit Mr. Atwood to be dismissed so coldly.  He has been a true friend in the most terrible emergency of our lives.  I must have a strong, kind hand to sustain me now that my husband, my life, has been foully slandered in his own home.”

Belle, in even greater terror of being left alone, clung to his arm, and said, “He cannot leave us—­he has made me a promise this night which will keep him here.”

With a troubled and deprecating look at Mildred, Roger replied, “I will not fail you, Mrs. Jocelyn, nor you, Belle; but there is no further need of my intruding on your privacy.  I shall be within call all night.”