“If you failed there would be no use of my trying,” said Roger, smiling.  “I think it was wonderfully good of you to go on such an errand.”

“I’ve had some lessons in goodness lately,” she replied, with a little friendly nod.  “As I talked with those stern men, I realized more than ever what an escape I’ve had, and I’ve thanked you in my heart a thousand times.”

The young fellow looked as if he had been repaid a thousand times, and wondered that he could have been so tempted by his uncle’s terms, for it now seemed impossible that he could ever do aught else than serve the sweet, sad girl who looked into his eyes with the trust and friendliness which he had sought for so long in vain.  His face became so expressive of his feelings that she hurried on to speak of another matter weighing on her mind.

“Mr. Atwood,” she said hesitatingly, “I have another trouble.  You looked so vindictively at that Mr. Bissel in the court-room that I have feared you might do something that you would afterward regret.  I know how one with your honorable spirit would feel toward such a wretch, but, believe me, he is beneath your notice.  I should feel so badly if you got into any trouble on my account.  Indeed it seems that I couldn’t stand it at all,” and she said it with so much feeling that he was honestly delighted.  His spirits were rising fast, for this frank, strong interest in his welfare, in contrast with her old constraint and coldness, was sweet to him beyond all words.

With a mischievous and rather wicked look in his dark eyes, he said, “You must leave that fellow to me.  I’m not a saint as you are.”

Mildred proved that she was not altogether a saint by inwardly relishing his spirit, for she never could overcome some of the traits of her Southern blood; but she said, honestly and anxiously, “I should feel very badly if you got into any trouble.”

“That thought will make me prudent,” he replied gratefully.  “You would never feel badly again about anything, if I had my way.”

“I believe you, Mr. Atwood, and I can’t see why I did not understand you better before,” said Mildred, the words slipping out almost before she knew it.

“I don’t think you understand me yet,” he answered, very gently.

She did not reply, but he saw her fingers trembling with nervous apprehension as she tried to go on with her sewing; he also saw that she was growing very pale.  Indeed she had almost the sick, faint look of one who is about to submit to some painful operation.

“Don’t be frightened, Miss Mildred,” he remarked, after watching her keenly for a moment or two.  She looked up and saw him smiling broadly at her.  In answer to her perplexed look he continued quietly, “I can tell you what has been the matter between us, and what is the matter now—­you are afraid of me.”

“Mr. Atwood—­” faltered Mildred, and then words failed her, and her pale face crimsoned.