"See if you can do anything to shake her resolution, William. I have tried in vain." Mrs. Arkell quitted the room abruptly, as she spoke. Mildred passed her handkerchief over her pale face, and rose from her seat. Knowing what he did know, it was not a pleasant task for William Arkell. But for the extreme sensitiveness of his nature, he might have given some common-place refusal, and run away. As it was, he advanced to her with marked hesitation, and a flush of emotion rose to his face. "Is there _anything_ I can urge, Mildred, that will induce you to abandon this plan of yours, and remain in Westerbury?" "Nothing," she replied. "Why should you persist in leaving your native place?--why have you formed this strange dislike to remain in it?" he proceeded. She would have answered him; she tried to answer him--any idle excuse that rose to her lips; but as he stood there, asking WHY she had taken a dislike to remain in the home of her childhood--he, the husband of another--the full sense of her bitter sorrow and desolation came rushing on, and overwhelmed her forced self-control. She hid her face in her hands, and sobbed in anguish. William Arkell, almost as much agitated as herself, drew close to her. He took her hand--he bent down to her with a whisper of strange tenderness. "If _I_ have had a share in causing you any grief, or--or--disappointment, let me implore your forgiveness, Mildred. It was not intentionally done. You cannot think so." She motioned him away, her sobs seeming as if they would choke her. "Mildred, I must speak; it has been in my heart to do it since--you know when," he whispered hoarsely, in his emotion, and he gathered both her hands in his, and kept them there. "I have begun to think lately, since my marriage, that it might have been well for both of us had we understood each other better. You talk of going into the world, a solitary wanderer; and my path, I fear, will not be one of roses, although it was of my own choosing. But what is done cannot be recalled." "I must go home," she faintly interrupted; "you are trying me too greatly." But he went on as though he heard her not. "Can we not both make the best of what is left to us? Stay in Westerbury, Mildred! Come home here to my father and mother; they are lonely now. Be to them a daughter, and to me as a dear sister." "I shall never more have my home in Westerbury," she answered; "never more--never more. We can bid each other adieu now." A moment's miserable pause. "Is there no appeal from this, Mildred?" "None." "Will you always remember, then, that you are very dear to me? Should you ever want a friend, Mildred--ever want any assistance in any way--do not forget where I am to be found. I am a married man now, and yet I tell you openly that Westerbury will have lost one of its greatest charms for me, when you have left it." "Let me go!" was all she murmured; "I cannot bear the pain."