One evening toward the latter part of the first six months of her outside work, Mildred returned from nursing a patient back to health.  She found the lady in charge of the institution in much tribulation.  “Here is Mrs. Sheppard, from one of the most influential families on Fifth Avenue, offering anything for a nurse.  Her brother is dying with consumption, she says.  He has a valet in attendance, but the physician in charge says he needs a trained nurse, for he wants constant watching.  He is liable to die at any moment.  We haven’t a nurse unemployed.  Do you feel too tired to go?”

“Oh, no,” said Mildred.  “My patient improved so much that for the last week I’ve almost been resting.”

“And you think you can go?”

“Certainly.”

“I’ll tell Mrs. Sheppard then to send for you in a couple of hours.  That will give you time to get ready.”

Two hours later Mildred was driven rapidly by a coach-man in livery to a mansion on Fifth Avenue, and she was speedily ushered into the room where the patient lay.  He was sleeping at the time, with curtains drawn and his face turned away.  Mildred only glanced at him sufficiently to see that he was very much emaciated.  A middle-aged lady who introduced herself as Mrs. Sheppard received her, saying, “I’m so glad you are here, for I am overcome with fatigue.  Last night he was very restless and ill, and would have no one near him except myself.  His valet is in that room just across the hall, and will come at the slightest summons.  Now while my brother is sleeping I will rest at once.  My room is here, opening into this.  Call me if there is need, and don’t mind if he talks strangely.  Your room is there, just beyond this one,” and with a few directions, given with the air of extreme weariness, she passed to her own apartment, and was soon sleeping soundly.

Mildred sat down in the dim room where the light fell upon her pure, sweet profile, which was made a little more distinct by the flickering of the cannel-coal fire, and began one of the quiet watches to which she was becoming so accustomed.  Her thoughts were very painful at first, for they seemed strangely inclined to dwell on Vinton Arnold.  From the time they parted she had heard nothing of him, and since the brief explanation that she had been compelled to give to Roger, his name had not passed her lips.  He had been worse than dead to her, and she wondered if he were dead.  She had never cherished any vindictive feelings toward him, and even now her eyes filled with tears of commiseration for his wronged and wretched life.  Then by a conscious effort she turned her thoughts to the friend who had never failed her.  “Dear Roger,” she murmured, “he didn’t appear well the last time I saw him.  He is beginning to look worn and thin.  I know he is studying too hard.  Oh, I wish my heart were not so perverse, for he needs some one to take care of him.  He can’t change; he doesn’t get over it as I hoped he would,” and her eyes, bent on the fire, grew dreamy and wistful.