her face, Mrs. Arnold showed this letter to her son.  In vain he tried to protest that not one evil thing against Mildred could be proved; that she was innocence and purity itself; that her misfortunes and the wrong of others were no reason for desertion on his part.  His mother for once lost her frigid politeness.  “What!” she almost screamed, “do you think we would ever let that horrid creature bear our name?  A woman who has been in a prison cell, and mixed up with the vilest and lowest people in the city, should not even be named in my presence.”

Her son gave her a strange, vindictive look.  “You unnatural mother,” he muttered between his teeth, “thus to speak of the girl to whom your son has given his best love, and who is worthy of it!” and he turned on his heel and left her.

Mrs. Arnold became somewhat hysterical, and wrote home that she believed that Vinton was losing his mind.  She soon learned, however, that she would have no ground for such a charge, although her son was becoming greatly changed.  His politeness to her was scrupulous to a nicety, but was unrelenting in its icy coldness.  At the same time she knew that he was continuing the correspondence, and she saw, too, that he was making the most studied and careful effort to gain in physical strength.  One day she began to upbraid him bitterly for his disobedience, but he interrupted her by saying sternly: 

“Madam, there is no child present.  I treat you with respect.  I also demand respect.”

The proud, resolute woman admitted to herself that his management was becoming a difficult and dubious problem, and at last, discouraged and exasperated by the unwavering steadfastness of his course and manner, she wrote that they might as well return home, for “he was beyond her influence.”

Therefore, thrilling with glad expectation, Arnold found himself in his native city much sooner than he had expected.  He had no very definite plans.  If he could only become sufficiently well to earn his own livelihood the future would be comparatively clear.  If this were impossible, his best hope was to wait, secure in Mildred’s faith, for the chances of the future, believing that his father might relent if his mother would not.  For this event, however, the outlook was unpromising.  Mr. Arnold was incensed by his wife’s fuller account of his son’s behavior, and the proof she had obtained, in spite of his precautions, that he was in frequent correspondence with Mildred.  He had since learned the circumstances of Mr. Jocelyn’s wretched death, and that Mildred was but a sewing-girl, living with an ignorant English woman in a dilapidated old tenement, and his bitter revolt at the whole affair was quite natural in view of his superficial inquiries and knowledge.  Both he and his wife judged from their proud and worldly standpoint solely, and therefore on the day following Vinton’s arrival they summoned him to a private interview.  At first Mr. Arnold proposed to reason with his son, but the cold, unyielding face soon so irritated him that he became almost violent in his anger.  After he and his mother had nearly exhausted themselves, Vinton said quietly: