“Why do you, Roger?” she asked, in a voice full of solicitude.

“If I don’t feel sleepy there is no use in wasting time.  But come, you have seen enough of the culinary department.  Since Mrs. Wheaton has charge of it you can know beforehand that everything will be the best of its kind.  I think I can show you something in my sitting-room that will interest you more.”

Mrs. Wheaton preceded them, and Mildred took his arm in a way that showed that he had not been able to banish her anxiety on his behalf.  “Let me see your parlors, Roger,” she said when they again reached the hall.  “I expect to find them models of elegance.”

He threw open the door and revealed two bare rooms, the brilliantly burning gas showing frescoes of unusual beauty, but beyond these there was nothing to relieve their bleak emptiness.  “I have no use for these rooms,” he remarked briefly, closing the door.  “Come with me,” and he led her to the apartment facing the street on the second floor.  The gas was burning dimly, but when he had placed her where he wished her to stand, he suddenly turned it up, and before her, smiling into her eyes from the wall, were three exquisitely finished oil portraits—­her father and mother and Belle, looking as she remembered them in their best and happiest days.

The effect upon her at first was almost overpowering.  She sank into a chair with heart far too full for words, and looked until tears so blinded her eyes that she could see them no longer.

“Roger,” she murmured, “it’s almost the same as if you had brought them back to life.  Oh, Roger, God bless you—­you have not banished papa; you have made him look as he asked us to remember him,” and her tender grief became uncontrollable for a few moments.

“Don’t cry so, Millie,” he said gently.  “Don’t you see they are smiling at you?  Are the likenesses good?”

“They are lifelike,” she answered after a little.  “How could you get them so perfect?”

“Belle and your mother gave me their pictures long ago, and you remember that I once asked you for your father’s likeness when I was looking for him.  There were some who could aid me if they knew how he looked.  Then you know my eye is rather correct, and I spent a good deal of time with the artist.  Between us we reached these results, and it’s a great happiness to me that they please you.”

Her eyes were eloquent indeed as she said, in a low tone:  “What a loyal friend you are!”

He shook his head so significantly that a sudden crimson came into her face, and she was glad that Mrs. Wheaton was busy in an adjoining room.  “Come,” he said lightly, “you are neglecting other friends;” and turning she saw fine photographs of Mr. Wentworth, of Clara Wilson, Mrs. Wheaton, and her little brother and sister; also oil portraits of Roger’s relatives.

She went and stood before each one, and at last returned to her own kindred, and her eyes began to fill again.