“You certainly will, Roger.  Your life will gradually become so rich, full, and happy, that some day you will look back in wonder at your present feelings.”

“Life will be full enough if work can make it so; but you must not expect me to outgrow this.  It will strengthen with my years.  It’s my nature as well as yours.  But I foresee how it will be,” he continued despondently; “I shall inevitably be pushed further and further into the background.  In your happy home life—­”

Before he could utter another word Mildred was sobbing passionately.  “Roger,” she cried, “don’t talk that way.  I can’t bear it.  If Vinton is jealous of you, if he fails in manly appreciation of you, I will never marry him.  Strong as my love is for him, such a course would destroy it.  There are certain kinds of weakness that I can’t and won’t tolerate.”

He was surprised and deeply touched, for her manner was usually so quiet and well controlled that even he was at times tempted to forget how strong and passionate was her nature on occasions sufficient to awaken it.  “There, Millie, I’ve hurt your feelings,” he said remorsefully.  “Even I do not half understand your good, kind heart.  Well, you must have patience with me.  When the right time comes my deeds will satisfy you, I think, though my words are now so unpromising.  But please don’t deny me—­don’t say anything about me until I give you permission.  What has occurred between us is sacred to me—­it’s our affair.”

“Very well, if you so wish it; but never even think again that you will ever be less to me than you are now.”

Nevertheless he went sadly away, saying to himself, “She’s sincere, Heaven knows, but what I said will be true in spite of her best intentions.”

The next day, after many farewells and an hour spent beside Belle’s grave, Roger returned to the city, far better prepared for life’s battle than when he first left his native village.  Two or three days later Mildred followed him, accompanied by Mrs. Wilson, who was determined to see her safely settled in Mrs. Wheaton’s care.  Pain and pleasure were almost equally blended in Mildred’s experience as she looked upon the furniture and the one or two pictures that had escaped their poverty—­all of which were so inseparable, in their associations, from those who were gone, yet never absent long from memory.  But the pleasure soon got the better of the pain, for she did not wish to forget.  Mrs. Wheaton’s welcome was so hearty as to be almost overpowering, and when Roger appeared in the evening with a beautiful picture for her walls she smiled as she once thought she never could smile again.  Mr. Wentworth also called, and was so kind and sympathetic that the young girl felt that she was far from friendless.  “I so managed it,” he whispered in parting, “that there was little public reference to your father’s sad end.  Now, Millie, turn your thoughts toward the future.  Let Roger make you happy.  Believe me, he’s pure gold.”