For a long time after the departure of Lawrence and Lilian, Mildred sat in a kind of maze, wondering whether the events of the last hour were real or whether they were all a dream, and that Lawrence Thornton had not called her “dear Mildred,” as she thought he did. The Judge, who might have enlightened her, had been suddenly called away just as the carriage rolled down the avenue, and feeling a restless desire to talk with somebody, she at last ran off to Oliver. He would know whether Lawrence was in earnest, and he would be almost as happy as she was. “Dear Oliver,” she whispered softly as she tripped down the Cold Spring path, “how much he loses by not knowing what it is to love the way I do.” Deluded Milly! How little she dreamed of the wild, absorbing love which burned in Oliver Hawkins’ heart, and burned there the more fiercely that he must not let it be known. It was in vain he tried to quench it with his tears; they were like oil poured upon the flame, and often in the midnight hour, when there was no one to hear, he cried in bitterness of spirit: “Will the Good Father forgive me if it is a sin to love her, for I cannot, cannot help it.” He was in bed this morning, but he welcomed Mildred with his accustomed smile; telling her how glad he was to see her, and how much sunshine she brought into his sick-room. “The world would be very dark to me without you, Milly,” he said, and his long, white fingers moved slowly over her shining hair. It was a habit he had of caressing her hair, and Mildred, who expected it, bent her beautiful head to the familiar touch. “Why did Lawrence go without coming to see me?” he asked, and at the question Mildred’s secret burst out. She could not keep it any longer, and with her usual impetuosity she told him all, and asked, if “as true as he lived, he believed Lawrence would have offered himself to her if Lilian hadn’t surprised them?” “I’m sure of it,” he said; adding, as he saw the sparkle in her eyes: “Does it make my little Milly very happy to know that Lawrence Thornton really loves her?” “Yes, Oliver. It makes me happier than I ever was before in my life. I wish you could, for just one minute, know the feeling of loving some one as I do him.” “Oh, Milly! Milly!” It was a cry of anguish, wrung from a fainting heart, but Mildred thought it a cry of pain. “What is it, Oliver?” she said, and her soft hand was laid on his face. “Where is the pain? Can I help it? Can I cure it? Oh, I wish I could. There, don’t that make it better?” and she kissed the pale lips where there was the shadow of a smile. “Yes, I’m better,” he answered. “Don’t, Milly, please don’t,” and he drew back as he saw her about to repeat the kiss. Mildred looked at him in surprise, saying: “Why, Oliver, I thought you loved me.” There was reproach in her soft, lustrous eyes, and folding his feeble arms about her, Oliver replied: “Heaven grant that you may never know how much I love you, darling.”