One moonlight night in June they made up a little party for an excursion on a steamer plying down the Bay.  Belle had had two attendants, and would have been just as well pleased had there been two or three more.  As she once asserted, she could have kept them “all jolly.”  During the earlier hours Roger had been as merry and full of nonsense as Belle, but on their return he and Mildred had taken seats a little apart from the others and drifted into some talk relating to one of his studies, he in a simple, lucid manner explaining to her the latest theories on a disputed question.  She surprised and pleased him by saying, with a little pathetic accent in her voice,

“Oh, Roger, you are leaving me far, far behind.”

“What do you mean, Millie?”

“Why, you are climbing the peaks of knowledge at a great pace, and what’s to become of poor little me, that have no chance to climb at all worth naming?  You won’t want a friend who doesn’t know anything, and can’t understand what you are thinking about.”

“I’ll wait for you, Millie; rest assured you shall never be left alone.”

“No, that won’t do at all,” she replied, and she was in earnest now.  “There is one thing wherein you will find me as obstinate as an Atwood, and that is never to let our friendship retard your progress or render your success doubtful, now that you have struck out for yourself.  Your relatives think that I—­that we shall be a drag upon you; I have resolved that we shall not be, and you know that I have a little will of my own as well as yourself.  You must not wait for me in any sense of the word, for you know how very proud I am, and all my pride is staked on your success.  It ought to have been dead long ago, but it seems just as strong as ever.”

“And I’m proud of your pride.  You are a soldier, Millie, and it isn’t possible for you to say, ‘I surrender.’”

“You are mistaken.  When you saved me from prison; when you gave nearly all you had that papa might have the chance which I trust will restore his manhood, I surrendered, and no one knew it better than you did.”

“Pardon me, Millie; the gates of the citadel were closed, and ever have been.  Even your will cannot open them no, not even your extravagant sense of gratitude for what it would be my happiness to do in any case.  That something which was once prejudice, dislike, repulsion, has retreated into the depths of your heart, and it won’t yield—­at least it hasn’t yet.  But, Millie, I shall be very patient.  Just as truly as if you were the daughter of a millionaire, your heart shall guide your action.”

“You are a royal fellow, Roger,” she faltered.  “If you were not so genuinely honest, I should think you wonderfully shrewd in your policy.”