Oliver too said, “Poor, poor Milly,” more than once when he saw how the color faded from her cheeks and the brightness from her eyes. His own health, on the contrary, improved, and in the autumn he went back to college, leaving Mildred more desolate than ever, for now there was no one to comfort her but the Judge, and he usually pained her more than he did her good. All through the long, dreary New England winter she was alone in her sorrow. Lilian never wrote, Oliver but seldom, for he dared not trust himself, while, worse than all, there came no news from the loved one over the sea, except, indeed, toward spring, when a Boston lady who was visiting in Mayfield brought the rumor that he was expected back before long to marry Lilian Veille; that some of the bridal dresses were selected, she believed, and that the young couple would remain at home, as Mr. Thornton wished his son to live with him. The woman who repeated this to Mildred wondered at her indifference, for she scarcely seemed to hear, certainly not to care, but the storm within was terrible, and when alone in the privacy of her chamber it burst forth with all its force, and kneeling by her bedside she asked that she might die before another than herself was the bride of Lawrence Thornton. Poor, poor little Milly! CHAPTER XV. THE SUN SHINING THROUGH THE CLOUD. The dreary winter had passed away, the warm April sun shone brightly upon the college walls, and stealing through the muslin-shaded window looked smilingly into the room where two young men were sitting, one handsome, manly and tall, the other deformed, effeminate and slight, but with a face which showed that the suffering endured so long and patiently had purified the heart within and made it tenfold better than it might otherwise have been. The latter was Oliver Hawkins, and he sat talking with Lawrence Thornton, who had landed in New York the previous day, and had surprised him half an hour before by coming suddenly into his room when he supposed him far away. During the entire period of his absence Lawrence had heard nothing of Mildred, for in his letters he had never mentioned her name, and it was to seek some information of her that he had turned out of his way and called on Oliver. After the first words of greeting were over, he said: “You hear from Beechwood, I suppose?” “Occasionally,” returned Oliver. “Mildred does not write as often as she used to do.” “Then she’s there yet?” and Lawrence waited anxiously for the answer. “There! of course she is. Where did you suppose she was?” Lawrence had in his mind a handsome dwelling looking out on Boston Common, with “T. HUDSON,” engraved upon its silver plate, and he fancied Mildred might be _there_, but he did not say so; and to Oliver’s question, he rather abruptly replied: “Clubs, I’ve come home to be married!”