“Now, I’ll be hanged,” said the Judge, “if this ain’t a little the greatest performance; but go right on, boy, have your say out. I’ll tend to her,” and bursting into the library, he caught up in his trepidation the ink-bottle in stead of the camphor. “A little thrown in her face will fetch her to. Camphor is good for the hysterics,” he said, and hurrying back he would undoubtedly have deluged poor Lilian with ink, if Mildred had not pushed him away just as the first drop had fallen on her dress. Whether Lawrence would have “had his say out” or not, was not proved, for Mildred sprang to Lilian’s side, and lifting her head upon her lap asked if she were sick. “No, no,” moaned Lilian, covering her face with her hands and crying a low, plaintive cry, which fell on Mildred’s heart like a reproachful sound, “no, not sick, but I wish that I were dead. Oh, Mildred, how could you serve me so, when you knew that he was mine? Ain’t you, Lawrence? Oh, Lawrence!” and burying her face in Mildred’s lap, she sobbed passionately. “Lilian,” said Lawrence, drawing near to her, “Lilian, I have never intended to deceive you; I am not responsible for what my father and Geraldine have said——” “Stop, I won’t hear,” cried Lilian, putting her fingers to her ears. “Mildred coaxed you, I know she did, and that hateful old man, too. Let’s go home, where Geraldine is. You always loved me there.” She did not seem to blame him in the least; on the contrary, she charged all to Mildred, who could only answer with her tears, for the whole had been so sudden,—so like a dream to herself. “Carriage at the gate,—is the young lady’s trunk ready?” asked Finn in the hall, and consulting his watch Lawrence saw that if they went that day they had no time to lose. “Hadn’t we better stay till to-morrow?” he suggested, unwilling to leave until Mildred had told him yes. “No, no,” Lilian fairly screamed. “We mustn’t stay another minute;” and grasping his arm, she led him into the hall, while the Judge, with the ink-bottle still in his hand, slyly whispered: “You can write, boy—you can write.” Yes, he could write, and comforted by this thought, Lawrence raised Mildred’s hand to his lips, while Lilian’s blue eyes flashed with far more spirit than was ever seen in them before. She would not say good-by, and she walked stiffly down to the carriage, holding fast to Lawrence, lest by some means he should be spirited away. It was a most dismally silent ride from Beechwood to the depot, for Lilian persisted in crying behind her vail, and as Lawrence knew of no consolation to offer, he wisely refrained from speaking, but employed himself the while in thinking how the little red spots came out all over Mildred’s face and neck when she sat upon the sofa, and he called her: “Dear Mildred.”