The uncle at first tried to be grim and obstinate, but he soon broke down completely.  “I’m glad you’ve come,” he said huskily.  “My conscience hasn’t given me any peace for months, and I wanted to give in, but you know that it’s like drawing an eye-tooth for an Atwood to give in.  I’m proud of the boy, and he’ll be a blessing to us all.  He is a new departure in the family; he’s got more brains than any of us, and with it all a big, brave heart.  He shall marry the girl if he wants to; and now that her old wretch of a father is dead, no harm need come of it.  But they’re young; they must wait until Roger is educated up to the best of ’em.  Well, now that I’ve given in, there shall be no half-way work,” and he insisted on sending for his lawyer and making his will in Roger’s favor at once.

“I didn’t come for any such purpose as this,” said Roger’s mother, wiping her eyes, while his father could scarcely conceal his exultation; “but I felt that it was time for us to stop living like heathen,” and after a visit of a very different nature from the one they had feared, the worthy couple returned to Forestville well content with the results of their expedition.

Roger was jubilant over the news, and he hastened to impart it to Mildred, who was spending the remaining weeks of her sojourn in the country with her friend Mrs. Wilson.

“Millie,” he said, “you shall never want again.  My good fortune would be nothing to me unless I shared it with you.”

But she disappointed him by saying, “No, Roger, you must let me live the independent life that my nature requires,” and the only concession that he could obtain from her was a promise to receive his aid should any emergency require it.

Before Mildred’s return a letter from Vinton Arnold was forwarded to her at Forestville, and it must be admitted that it gave her sad heart something like a thrill of happiness.  It was an eloquent and grateful outpouring of affection, and was full of assurances that she had now given him a chance for life and happiness.

When she told Roger, he looked very grim for a moment, and then by a visible effort brightened up and said, “It’s all right, Millie.”  After pacing the room for a few moments with a contracted brow, he continued, “Millie, you must grant me one request—­you must not say anything to Arnold about me.”

“How can I say anything then about myself?” she answered.  “I want him to know that I owe everything to you, and I hope to see the day when you will be the closest of friends.”

“Well, that will be a good way on.  I must see him first, and learn more about him, and—­well, friends related as Arnold will be to me are not common.  I’ve too much of the old untamed man in me to go readily into that kind of thing.  I will do anything in the world for you, but you must not expect much more till I have a few gray hairs in my head.  Come now, you must humor me a little in this affair; you can say generally that some friends were kind, and all that, without much personal reference to me.  If you should write as you propose, he might be jealous, or—­worse yet—­write me a letter of thanks.  It may prevent complications, and will certainly save me some confoundedly disagreeable experiences.  After I’ve seen him and get more used to it all, I may feel differently.”