Her look, tone, and action stung Mildred to the very quick.  Gentle and retiring usually, she was capable of a very decided and even an aggressive course under great provocation.  For a moment her warm Southern blood boiled at Mrs. Arnold’s implication that she was so eager to capture her wealthy son that it was not prudent to leave them alone together a moment.  With decision and the dignity of conscious innocence she said, “Good-morning, Mr. Arnold”; then taking little Minnie’s hand and calling Fred she led the way toward the house.  It happened that the only path of egress led her by the carriage, and the manner in which its occupant ignored her presence was so intolerable in its injustice that she paused, and, fixing her clear, indignant eyes on the flushed, proud face before her, asked, in tones never forgotten by those who heard them, “Mrs. Arnold, wherein have I wronged you or yours?”

The lady was silent and a little embarrassed.

“I know, and you might know,” Mildred continued, “if you chose, that you cannot charge me with one unwomanly act, but your look and manner toward me are both unwomanly and unchristian.  You insult me in my poverty and misfortune.  Without the shadow of right or reason, you cruelly wound one who was wounded already;” and she was about to pass on.

“Mother, as you are a woman, do not let her go without a word of respect and kindness,” cried her son, in a hoarse, stifled voice.

“Miss Jocelyn,” began Mrs. Arnold in a constrained tone, “I mean you no disrespect.  Nevertheless—­”

“Nevertheless!” exclaimed Arnold, wrought to frenzy.  “Great God! are you going to qualify that grudging sentence?” He struck his hand to his forehead, reeled, and fell prone upon the earth.  In a moment Mildred knelt beside him, and Roger saw that she loved him with her whole strong, womanly soul.

“Bring water, bring brandy; mother will give it to you,” she said to him in a low voice, and he dashed off to obey.

Mrs. Arnold hastily descended from the carriage and felt her son’s pulse with much solicitude.  “He has only fainted,” she said.  “He is apt to have such attacks when overwrought.  It’s a part of his disease.  Miss Jocelyn, you see he is a reed that must be supported, not leaned upon,” she added, looking straight into the young girl’s troubled eyes.  “I mean you kindness as truly as I mean kindness to him.  He will soon be better.  He has often been in this condition ever since he was a child.  With this knowledge you will understand me better.  Thomas”—­to the coach-man—­“lift him into the carriage.  He will soon revive,” she continued to Mildred, “and at the hotel he shall have the best of care.  Believe me, I feel for you both, but I know what is right and best.”

The coachman did as he was directed, and they drove rapidly away.

Mildred put her hand to her side, and then, with pale and downcast face, led the wondering children toward the house.  She soon met.  Roger returning, and running like a deer.