guilty of a fatal error, and the consequences had been so terrible to his son that he had daily grown more conscience-smitten; but his wife had gained such an ascendency over him in all social and domestic questions that beyond occasional protests he had let matters drift until Vinton returned from his long exile in Europe.  The hope that his son would get over what his wife called “an absurd youthful folly” was now rudely dispelled, and in bitterness he reproached himself that he had not adopted a different course.

From the way in which he came in and looked at his son when he was sleeping, it was soon revealed to Mildred how he felt, and she pitied him also.

Mrs. Sheppard was a wealthy widow, and the eldest daughter.  She was for the present making her home under the paternal roof.  Unlike her mother, she had quick, strong sympathies, which sorrows of her own had deepened.  She had assumed the care of her brother, and infused into her ministry a tenderness which at last led the imbittered heart to reveal itself to her.  She was therefore already prepared to be Mildred’s sincere ally in bringing a little light into the late evening-tide of her brother’s clouded day.

Most of the time she sat in her own room with the door ajar, leaving Vinton to the ministrations of his nurse.  He required far less care now, for he seemed content to rest as one might during a respite from torture.  His eyes would follow Mildred with a pathetic longing when he was awake, and when she took his hand and told him to sleep he would obey like a child.  He seemed better because so quiet, but he grew weaker daily.  All knew, and none better than himself, that life was slowly ebbing.  His father came in more frequently than ever, for his son showed no restlessness at his presence now.  At Mildred’s request Vinton even began to greet him with something like a welcome, and the young girl did all in her power to make the old gentleman feel at home; sometimes she would place a large easy-chair by the fire and ask him to sit with them.  He was glad to comply, and often looked wonderingly and earnestly at the fair young nurse that was working such a transformation in the patient.  He once or twice tried to become better acquainted with her, but ever found her gentle, deferential, and very reserved.

Twice Mildred asked Vinton to let her send for Mr. Wentworth, but he shook his head and said that she alone could do him any good.  “Read the Bible to me when you feel like it.  I’ll listen to you, but my best hope is to sleep so quietly that I shall have no dreams.  If that cannot be, I’ll remember that you forgave me.”

“Such words make me very sad,” she replied, on the latter occasion, tears rushing into her eyes.

“I am not worthy that you should care so much,” he said.  “What am I but a flickering rush-light which your hand is shielding that it may burn out quietly?”