Mildred could not go away and leave the family in their dire distress. She caught Gotobed's eye, and there was in it a dumb entreaty which she had neither power nor heart to resist. Silently she made her way to his side. The doctors were clearing the room of all who were not needed. "They're a goin' to take off my right hand," he said hoarsely. "It's an awful thing, but if--if you'll stand by me and let me look in your eyes, I can bear it." She turned hers on the surgeon--Lucilla Grange's father. "May I?" "If you have the nerve, my dear child; it would be a great kindness to the poor fellow. There ought to be a woman near him, and it seems neither mother nor sister is equal to it." "I will stay," she said, a great compassion filling her heart. "I shall not look at what you are doing; but I will stand by and fan him." She kept her word; forgetting herself entirely, thinking of him only as one suffering terrible agony and in need of her support, she stood gazing into his eyes, her heart going up in silent, fervent prayer on his behalf. Chloroform and ether were not known in those days, and the knife's cruel work must be borne without the blessed insensibility to pain that they can give. Had the magnetism of Mildred's gaze a like effect? I know not; but something enabled Gotobed to pass through the terrible ordeal without a groan or moan; almost without flinching. The right hand had to be taken off at the wrist; the left, though much mangled, the surgeon hoped to save; and did so ultimately. The amputation and the dressing of the wounds was over at last and Mildred was turning away when a cup of tea was put into her hand with the words, spoken in a half whisper, "Give him this; he will take it from you." She held it to his lips and he drank; a plate was silently substituted for the cup and she fed him like a child. Poor fellow! it would be long before he could feed himself again. Mildred set down the plate and stole quickly from the house. Her long pent up emotion must find vent. She went weeping home, her heart breaking with pity for the man she could not love, could not have married for the wealth of the world. Oh, why did he love her so? She had read it in his eyes;--that she was more to him than all the world beside, and that he knew his was a hopeless passion. She was glad to see that the sun was setting; because she knew from the lateness of the hour that tea must be over at home, and the little ones in bed; for she dreaded their questionings and curious looks, and loathed the thought of food. Her mother, that best earthly friend, who always understood her as by intuition, met her at the door and clasped her in a tender, loving embrace; and on that dear bosom the whole sad story was sobbed out.