“Vinton,” Mildred replied, “I cannot tell you how glad I am to hear you speak so.  I have been waiting and hoping for this, for it is proof that your feeling is not mere emotion and sentiment.  You now propose to do something that is more than manly—­it is divine.  God’s greatest, dearest, most godlike prerogative is to forgive, and man’s noblest act is to forgive a great wrong.  Vinton, you have now won my respect.”

She never forgot his answering glance.  “Millie,” he said softly, “I can die happy now.  I never expected more than your pity.”

“If you will do this, your memory will become sweet and ennobled in my heart.  Your action will show me how grandly and swiftly God can develop one who has been wronged by evil.”

“God bless you, my good angel.  Ask my sister to send for my father and mother at once.  I feel a little stronger this evening, and yet I think the beginning of my new life is very near.”

Mildred went into Mrs. Sheppard’s room and told her of Vinton’s purpose.  She looked at the young girl for a moment with eyes blinded by tears, and then clasped her in a close, passionate embrace which was more eloquent than any words.  “Oh, Mildred,” she said, with a low sob, “if you only could have been my sister!” Then she hastened to carry out her brother’s wishes.

The fire burned brightly in the grate, the softened lights diffused a mild radiance through the room, and the old impression of gloom was utterly absent when Vinton’s parents entered.  Neither Mrs. Arnold nor her husband was quite able to hide the surprise and embarrassment felt at the unexpected summons, but Mr. Arnold went promptly to the bedside, and, taking his son’s hand, said huskily, “I’ll come any time you wish, my dear boy, be it night or day.”

Vinton gave as warm a pressure in answer as his feebleness permitted, and then he said gravely, “I wish you and mother to sit here close to me, for I must speak low, and my words must be brief.  I have but a little fragment of life left to me, and must hasten to perform the few duties yet within my power.”

“Had not this young woman better retire?” suggested Mrs. Arnold, glancing coldly at Mildred, who stood in the background, Mrs. Sheppard detaining her by a strong, warm clasp of her hand.

“No,” said Vinton decisively, “she must remain.  Were it not for the influence of this Christian—­not religious, but Christian—­girl, you would never have seen my face again, with my consent.  In showing me how God forgives the sinful, she has taught me how to forgive.  Mother, I never expected to forgive you, but I do from my heart.  I am far beyond the world and all worldly considerations.  In the clear light of the endless life to which we are all hastening, I see as never before how small, petty, and unworthy are those unnatural principles which blight human life at fashion’s bidding.  Mother, I wish to do you justice.  You tried to care for me in my childhood and youth.  You spared