“Come, papa,” cried Mildred, as she put her arms around his neck and leaned her face against his, “there are thousands worse off than we are, and thousands more have retrieved far worse disasters.  Now take courage; we’ll all stand by you, and we’ll all help you.  We will one day have a prettier home than ever, and it will be all our own, so that no one can drive us from it;” and with hope springing up in her heart she tried to inspire hope and courage in theirs.

“Oh, Millie,” he said, taking her on his lap, “when you coax and pet one you are irresistible.  We will begin again, and win back all and more than we have lost.”

Then, partly to amuse her father and mother, but more for the purpose of hastening their departure, Mildred told them of Roger’s peculiar mood, and her conscience smote her a little as she caricatured rather than characterized the youth.  Mrs. Jocelyn, in her kindliness, took his part, and said, “Millie, you are satirical and unjust I’m sure he’s a well-meaning young man.”

“The dear little mother!” cried Mildred, laughing; “when she can’t think of anything else good to say of a person, she assures us that he is ‘well-meaning.’  Life may bring me many misfortunes, but I shall never marry what mamma calls ‘a well-meaning man.’”

“But, Millie, I’m sure he’s been very good and kind to us all, and he’s kind to his mother and sister, and he seems steady—­”

“Well, mamma, admitting it all, what follows?” asked Mildred.

“It follows that we had better go away,” said Mrs. Jocelyn, with her low, sweet laugh, that had been rarely heard of late; “but I don’t like you to be unjust to the young fellow.  After all, he’s not so very much to blame, Millie,” she added, with a little nod.  “If I were he I fear I might be in the same fix.”

“Oh, papa, now we must go; for if mamma’s sympathies are once aroused in behalf of this ’steady, well-meaning young man’—­there!  I will talk no more nonsense to-night, although I often find nonsense a sort of life preserver that keeps me from sinking.  I admit, mamma, that I have been unjust to Mr. Atwood.  He’s far more clever than I ever imagined him to be, but he’s so different”—­she finished the sentence with a little repellent gesture that her mother well understood.

They were all comforted, and far more hopeful from their frank interchange of thought and feeling, and both father and mother breathed a fervent “God bless you, Millie,” as they separated, long past midnight.

“God will bless us,” said the young girl, “if we will just simply try to do what is right and best every day.  The blessing will come on doing, not waiting.”

She had not been in her room very long before hearing the crunching of gravel under the wheels of Roger’s buggy.  With a smile she thought, “He must have found a more sympathizing ear and heart than mine to have remained out so late.”

CHAPTER XI