“Vinton, you are wrong.  The life which God has given you cannot cease.  I am not wise and learned, and I have an almost unconquerable diffidence in speaking on these subjects, except to children and the poor and ignorant.  But since you won’t see any one else, I must speak.  You say God sent me to you, and I accept your belief, but He did not send me to you merely to relieve physical pain and mental disquiet.  If a man is stumbling toward an abyss of darkness, is it any great kindness to hold a lamp so that his last steps may be easier?  There is for each one of us a vital truth and a sacred duty, and in shutting your eyes to these and living in the present hour, you show—­pardon an honest friend for saying it—­you show a more fatal weakness than you have yet manifested.”

“You are mistaken, Mildred,” he said bitterly.  “As far as I am concerned, what truth is there for me to contemplate except a wasted, unhappy life, wrecked and shamed beyond remedy, beyond hope.  I long ago lost what trace of manhood I once had.  Never dream that because you have forgiven me I shall forgive myself.  No, no,” he said, with a dark vindictiveness in his eyes, “there are three that I shall never forgive, and I am one of them.  As for duty, the word is torment.  What can I do—­I who can scarcely raise my hand?  My day is over, my chance has gone by forever.  Don’t interrupt me.  I know you would speak of the consolations of religion, but I’d rather go to the devil himself—­if there is one—­than to such a God as my mother worships; and she has always been a very religious woman.  The whole thing long since became a farce to me at our church.  It was just as much a part of the fashionable world that blighted me as the rest of society’s mummeries.  You never went there after you had real trouble to contend with.  It was the last place that you would think of going to for comfort or help.  The thought of you alone has kept me from utter unbelief, and I would be glad to believe that there is some kindly power in existence that watches over such beings as you are, and that can reward your noble life; but as far as I am concerned it’s all a mystery and a weariness.  You are near—­you are merciful and kind.  This is all the heaven I expect.  It is far more than I deserve.  Let me rest, Mildred.  It will be but for a few more days.  Then when you close my eyes, may I sleep forever,” and he leaned back faint and exhausted.  He would not let her interrupt him, for he seemed bent on settling the question as far as he was concerned, and dismissing it finally.

She listened with fast-falling tears, and answered sighingly, “Oh, I do wish you would see Mr. Wentworth.  You are so wrong—­so fatally mistaken.”

“No,” he said firmly, “I will see no one but you.”

“Oh, what shall I say to you?”

“Do not grieve so about me.  You cannot change anything.  You cannot give me your strong, grand nature any more than you can your beautiful life and perfect health.  I could become a Catholic and worship St. Mildred,” he added with a smile, trying to banish her tears.  “The only duty that I am capable of is to try to make as little trouble as possible, and to cease making it altogether soon.  Go and rest, and I will too, for I’m very tired.”