While Mildred quietly performed her duties as head-nurse in one of the wards during the last six months of the two years of her sojourn at the Training School, some important changes had occurred in Roger’s circumstances.  He had, more than a year before, graduated second in his class at college, and had given the impression that he would have been first had he taken the full four years’ course.  His crotchety uncle, with whom since the reconciliation he had resided, had died, and after a few months his wife followed him, and Roger found himself a wealthy man, but not a happy one.  Beyond giving his parents every comfort which they craved, and making his sister Susan quite an heiress, he scarcely knew what to do with the money.  His uncle’s home was not at all to his taste, and he soon left it, purchasing a moderate-sized but substantial and elegant house in a part of the city that best suited his convenience.  Here he installed Mrs. Wheaton as housekeeper, and, with the exception of his own suite of rooms and the sleeping apartments, left all the rest unfurnished.  After placing himself in a position to offer hospitalities to his country relatives, he determined that the parlors should remain empty, as a mute reproach to Mildred.

One evening, a week before she graduated, he induced her to go with him to see his house.  “It’s not a home,” he whispered; “I merely stay here.”  Then, without giving time for reply, he ushered her into the hall, which was simply but very elegantly furnished.  Mildred had time only to note two or three fine old engravings and a bronze figure, when Mrs. Wheaton, bustling up from the basement, overwhelmed her with hospitality.  They first inspected her domains, and in neatness and comfort found them all that could be desired.  “You see,” said the good woman, as she and Mildred were hidden from view in a china closet, “I could get hup quite a grand dinner, but I hain’t much use fur these ’ere things, for he heats less and less hevery day.  I’m troubled habout Mr. Roger, fur he seems kinder low hin ’is spirits and discouraged like.  Most young men vould feel like lords hin ‘is shoes, but he’s a-gettin’ veary and listless-like.  Vun day he vas so down that I vanted ’im to see a doctor, but he smiled kinder strange and said nothin’.  He’s a-gettin’ thin and pale.  Vat vould I do hif he should get sick?”

Mildred turned in quick alarm and glanced at the young man, who stood looking at the glowing kitchen-range, as if his thoughts were little interested in the homely appliances for his material comfort.  His appearance confirmed Mrs. Wheaton’s words, for his features were thinner than they had been since he recovered from his illness, and there was a suggestion of lassitude and dejection in his manner.  She went directly to him and said: 

“Mrs. Wheaton tells me you are not well.”

He started, then threw off all depression, remarking lightly, “Mrs. Wheaton is fidgety.  She prepares enough food for four men.  I’m well—­have been working rather late at night, that’s all.”