Mildred’s letter to her father brought a request that she should join him at once and choose between two sets of rooms, of which he had the refusal.  She insisted upon going, for she was eager to leave a place that had become hateful to her.  She greatly wished to hear of Arnold’s welfare before her departure, but would not make any effort to do so.

To her surprise, however, Roger handed her a note the following morning.  She knew the handwriting well, and asked, “How do you happen to have this, Mr. Atwood?”

“I supposed you would wish to hear from your friend, and so went up to the hotel.  As soon as Mr. Arnold saw me he asked me to give you that letter.”

Mildred bit her lip.  Was it an officious or a friendly act?  She was beginning to doubt whether she had fully gauged the character of this young farmer, but of one thing she was instinctively certain—­his motive was personal, and sprung from an interest in her which was now more repugnant than ever.  Whether this instance was an obtrusive meddling in her affairs, or an act well meant, but unwarranted by their relations, she could not tell.  However it might be, she wished the letter had come by any other hands than his.

She gravely thanked him, and added, “Mr. Atwood, please do not feel called upon to do anything further for me unless requested.”

He grew pale and his lips tightened, for her words and manner hurt him.  His act had been in truth very generous and self-effacing, but he merely bowed in seeming acquiescence, and turned away.

Arnold’s letter ran as follows: 

“The memory of that scene yesterday will oppress me forever.  Nothing could have happened that would more clearly convince you that I am unworthy of your thought.  And yet it will be a life-long agony to know that I am unworthy.  When I tell you that I love and honor you above all other women it is but a poor compensation, I fear, for all that I have made you suffer.  My mother has kindly (?) informed me that she told you how feeble I am, and I proved her words true.  I feel that the best service I can render you is to say, Forget me wholly; and yet you can never know what such words cost me. I shall never forget, unless death is forgetting.  If I had the strength to be of any help to you at all, I would break away at once and take the consequences; but I have been an invalid all my life, and why I still continue to live I scarcely know.  If, however, there should ever be a time when one so weak as I am can aid you, give me this one shadowy hope that you will come to me.  Vinton Arnold.”

This was Mildred’s reply: 

“It is not in my nature to forget, therefore I cannot.  It is not my wish to forget, therefore I will not.  You will find me ever the same.  Mildred Jocelyn.”