she also knew that there were far more who sought to trade upon his sympathies.  While she could take aid from him as readily as from any one, she also believed that before she could receive it she must be frank concerning her father.  Rather than talk of his shame, even to her pastor, it might well be believed that the girl would starve.  What she might do for the sake of the others was another question.

Mr. Wentworth in sadness recognized the barrier which Mildred’s pride was rearing between them, but he was too wise and experienced to be obtrusively personal.  He sought earnestly, however, to guard the young girl against the moral danger which so often results from discouragement and unhappiness, and he entreated her not to part with her faith, her clinging trust in God.

“A clinging trust is, indeed, all that I have left,” she had replied so sadly that his eye suddenly moistened; “but the waves of trouble seem strong and pitiless, and I sometimes fear that my hands are growing numb and powerless.  In plain prose, I’m just plodding on—­God knows whither.  In my weary, faltering way I am trying to trust Him,” she added, after a brief silence, “and I always hope to; but I am so tired, Mr. Wentworth, so depressed, that I’m like the soldiers that have been described to me as marching on with heavy eyes and heavy feet because they must.  There is no use in my coming to the chapel, for I haven’t the heart to say a word of cheer to any one, and hollow words would hurt me, while doing no good.  I am trying your charity sorely, but I can’t help it.  I fear you cannot understand me, for even your Christian sympathy is a burden.  I’m too tired, too sorely wounded to make any response; while all the time I feel that I ought to respond gratefully and earnestly.  It seems a harsh and unnatural thing to say, but my chief wish is to shrink away from everybody and everything not essential to my daily work.  I think I shall have strength enough to keep up a mechanical routine of life for a long time, but you must not ask me to think or give way to feeling, much less to talk about myself and—­and—­the others.  If I should lose this stolid self-control which I am gaining, and which enables me to plod along day by day with my eyes shut to what may be on the morrow, I believe I should become helpless from despair and grief.”

“My dear child,” the clergyman had replied, in deep solicitude, “I fear you are dangerously morbid; and yet I don’t know.  This approach to apathy of which you speak may be God’s shield from thoughts that would be sharp arrows.  I can’t help my honest sympathy, and I hope and trust that I may soon be able to show it in some helpful way—­I mean in the way of finding you more remunerative and less cruel work,” he added quickly, as he saw a faint flush rising in the young girl’s face.  Then he concluded, gravely and gently, “Miss Mildred, I respect you—­I respect even your pride; but, in the name of our common faith and the bonds it implies, do not carry it too far.  Good-by.  Come to me whenever you need, or your conscience suggests my name,” and the good man went away wholly bent on obtaining some better employment for Mildred; and he made not a little effort to do so, only to find every avenue of labor suited to the girl’s capacity already thronged.  Meanwhile the needs and sorrows of others absorbed his time and thoughts.