Dr. Heriot sighed over Richard's letter, but he made no attempt to facilitate his preparations for going to London; he was reading things by a clear light now; this failure of his was a sore subject to him; in spite of the prospect that was dawning slowly before him, he could not bear to think of the tangled web he had so unthinkingly woven--it would need careful unravelling, he thought; and so curious is the mingled warp and woof in the mind of a man like John Heriot, that while his heart yearned for Mildred with the strong passion of his nature, he felt for his young betrothed a tenderness for which there was no name, and the thought of freeing himself and her was painful in the extreme. He longed to see her again and judge for himself, but he must be patient for a while, he knew; so though Polly pleaded for his presence almost passionately, he still put her off on some pretext or other,--nor did he come till a strong letter of remonstrance from Mildred reached him, reproaching him for his apparent neglect, and begging him to recall the girl, as their present position was not good for her or Roy. Mildred was constrained to take this step, urged by her pity for Polly's evident unhappiness. That some struggle was passing in the girl's mind was now evident. Was she becoming shaken in her loyalty to Dr. Heriot? Mildred grew alarmed; she saw that while Roy's invalid fancies were obeyed with the old Polly-like docility and sweetness, that she shrank at times from him as though she were afraid to trust herself with him; sometimes at a look or word she would rise from his side and go to the piano and sing softly to herself some airs that Dr. Heriot loved. 'You never sing my old favourites now, Polly,' Roy said once, rather fretfully, 'but only these old things over and over again!' 'I like to sing these best,' she said, hastily; and then, as he still pressed the point, she pushed the music from her, and hurried out of the room. But Mildred had another cause for uneasiness which she kept to herself. There was no denying that Roy was very slow in regaining strength. Dr. Blenkinsop shook his head, and looked more dissatisfied every day. 'I don't know what to make of him,' he owned to Mildred, one day, as they stood in the porch together. It was a mild December afternoon; a red wintry sun hung over the little garden; a faint crescent moon rose behind the trees; underneath the window a few chrysanthemums shed a soft blur of violet and dull crimson; a slight wind stirred the hair from Mildred's temples, showing a streak of gray; but worn and thin as she looked, Dr. Blenkinsop thought he had never seen a face that pleased him better. 'What a Sister of Mercy she would make,' he often thought; 'if I know anything of human nature, this woman has known a great sorrow; she has been taught patience in a rough school; no matter how that boy tries her, she has always a cheerful answer ready for him.'