“Millie, oh, Millie, are you real, or is it a dream?”

She took two or three steps toward the bed, stopped, and covered her face with her hands.

“Oh, speak!” he cried in agony.  “I do not know whether I am dreaming or awake, or whether I now see as if before me the one ever in my thoughts.  You hide your face from me,” he groaned, sinking back despairingly.  “You have come for a brief moment to show me that I can never look upon your face again.”

Mildred thought swiftly.  Her first impulse was to depart at once, and then her womanly pity and sense of duty gained the mastery.  Vinton Arnold was now a dying man, and she but a trained nurse.  Perhaps God’s hand was in their strange and unexpected meeting, and it was His will that the threads of two lives that had been bound so closely should not be severed in fatal evil.  Should she thwart His mercy?

“Mr. Arnold,” she said, in an agitated voice, “this is a strange and undreamed-of meeting.  Let me quiet your mind, however, by telling you how simple and matter-of-fact are the causes which led to it.  I am now a professional nurse from the Training School connected with Bellevue Hospital, and your sister, having sent to the School for assistance, obtained my services as she might those of any of my associates.  In view—­perhaps—­it would be best for one of them to take my place.”

He was strongly moved, and listened panting and trembling in his weakness.  “Millie,” at last he faltered, “is there any God at all?  Is there any kind or merciful spirit in nature?  If so, you have been sent to me, for I am dying of remorse.  Since you bade me leave you I have suffered tortures, day and night, that I cannot describe.  I have often been at the point of taking my own life, but something held me back.  Can it be that it was for this hour?  Mildred, I am dying.  The end of a most unhappy life is very near.  Is there no mercy in your faith—­no mercy in your strong, pure womanly heart?”

“Vinton,” she said gently, “I believe you are right.  God has sent me to you.  I will not leave you until it is best.”

“Millie, Millie,” he pleaded, “forgive me.  I cannot believe in God’s forgiveness until you forgive me.”

“I forgave you from the first, Vinton, because I knew there was no cold-blooded evil in your mind, and I have long felt that you were more sinned against than sinning.  If I stay I must impose one condition—­there must be no words concerning the past.  That is gone forever.”

“I know it, Mildred.  I killed your love with my own hand, but the blow was more fatal to me than to you.”

“Can you not rally and live?” she asked tearfully.

“No,” he said, with a deep breath.  “Moreover, I have no wish to live.  The dark shadow of my life will soon fall on you no more, but the hope that I may breathe my last with you near brings a deep content and peace.  Does any one yet suspect who you are?”