rude and harsh, for if left to themselves that summer day they might realize all her fears.  At the same time she proposed to manifest her disapproval so decidedly that if the young woman still sought to enter her family, it would be by a sort of violence; and she also was not unmindful of the fact that, with the exception of an apparent laborer and her coachman, only the parties interested were the witnesses of her tactics.  Therefore she had looked at Mildred as coldly and haughtily as only a proud woman can, with the result already narrated.  Although compelled to admit that the girl was not what she had imagined her to be, she was none the less bent on preventing further complications, and resolved to take her son elsewhere as soon as he had sufficiently recovered.

The next morning Mildred left her seclusion, and her aspect was pale and resolute, but no reference was made to the events uppermost in the minds of those aware of them.  Even the children and Belle had been so cautioned that they were reticent.  In the evening, however, as Roger was raking the flower-beds over to prevent the weeds from starting, Mildred came out, and joining him said, a little bitterly, “Well, what did your microscopic vision reveal to you yesterday morning?”

“A brave, proud girl, for whom I have the deepest respect,” he replied, looking directly into her eyes.

“Was that all?”

“No, indeed.”

“Well, what else?” she persisted, in a tone quite unlike her usual accent.

“I saw the merest shadow of a man and the ghost of a woman who must weigh nearly two hundred.”

She flushed hotly as she said, “You pride yourself on your keen perceptions, but the truth is you are blind,” and she was turning angrily away when he answered, “Time will show how blind I am,” and then he went on quietly with his work.

“Oh, how I detest that man!” she muttered, as she went up to her favorite haunt on the hilltop looking toward the south.  “Why did he, of all others, have to be present with his prying eyes at the odious scene?  He must know now how I feel toward Vinton Arnold, and yet he has so little sense and delicacy that he expresses contempt for him to my face.  Brute strength may be his ideal of manhood, but it’s not mine; and he knows so little of women that he thinks I ought to despise one who is simply unfortunate, and through no fault of his own.  Poor, poor Vinton!  Brief as were the moments before we were interrupted, he had time to assure me that life had become a burden because of our separation, and yet he said that he had no right to see me, no right to send me a line, no right to add his weakness to my other misfortunes.  Time shall at least show one thing—­that I can be patient and true.  That proud, cold woman has no control over me, and as long as he is faithful I shall be.”

CHAPTER XIV

THE OLD MANSION