Mildred Latham succeeded in her work. And with her success, there came to her each day, almost every hour, thoughts of the one of her dreams. This day, and others as well, she shuddered when she could not forget what he had been told. It was worse, and more, because he had been told the truth. It hurt her. He was somewhere, and he didn't know that she loved him; but, even if he did, he could not accept this knowledge with any delight. No, he was out of her life, or, rather, she was out of his. He would never, no never, be out of hers. Never, because, as she felt every day, it was his memory that stimulated her, made her feel and appreciate what great good a life can do. And she did all she could, in her way, to assist others. Some day, maybe, she might be able to do more. When she undressed each night to retire, she fell on her knees and offered thanks to Him that is Holy. She asked for strength and conviction and courage to continue in the same on the morrow. She struggled to lead a Christian life, and to be acceptable in the eyes of her Creator.... She was a believer. Mildred was welcomed everywhere, and treated with all the courtesy due to a lady. When she left a house one day, where two women had given her their order, she overheard them say she was beautiful. She felt her heart throbbing. She was not vain, but she loved to be called attractive. Then she thought of him. He had called her beautiful also. She wondered whether he, at any time, forgot the words he heard, and remembered her as he had seen her that day. The day they had danced and he--kissed her. She seemed to feel still that kiss; she hoped to feel it always. She wondered, if he knew she was working in his memory and made happy thereby, would he be pleased--and would he, at least, try to forget as much as he could what he had been told. He could, of course, not forget. That made it hard. _She did not expect him to forget._ When the day's work was done, and she had returned to her place of abode, she lay upon her bed, and for a time, she gave up to thoughts of him. She knew not where he was. She did not try to find out, that would make it worse. Sometimes she felt that if she did, perhaps, it might help her in her picture of him; then again, she did not think it best. That might bring him too conspicuously before her. Sometimes at night she would suddenly awaken, and her very soul would be on fire. She sat up at these times, and almost declared it could not go on this way. She must know his whereabouts; he must feel, know that she loved him. And then, when the spell had died--was killed, for its death was inevitable, she would lie down again and try to forget. But she never succeeded in this.