They were not rich, those good Samaritans, although the doctor was making rapid strides in his profession. Theirs had been a hard struggle. The mother had been left a widow when quite young; she had only a small income, the son was desirous of a good education, and then he chose the profession he felt most inclination for. But it had been up-hill work--they had no friends and no influence. They had nothing but his skill and industry to rely upon. Both, however, soon made their way. His practice increased rapidly, and when Hyacinth found refuge with him he had begun to save money, and was altogether in what the people of the world call comfortable circumstances. It was most probably the remembrance of their early struggles that made both mother and son so kind and charitable to the unhappy girl who had fallen under their hands. Perhaps, had they always been prosperous, they might have had harder hearts. As it was, the memory of their past struggles softened them and made them kinder to the whole world. Mrs. Chalmers, well-born and well-bred herself, was quick to recognize that Hyacinth was a gentlewoman--one who had been accustomed not only to a life of refinement, but of luxury. She was quick also to recognize the pure mind, the innocent, simple, gentle heart. It was all settled, and Millicent--as Hyacinth Vaughan was now called--became one of the family. Mrs. Chalmers always treated her as though she was her own daughter. The doctor spoiled, indulged, teased, and worshipped her. They did all that was possible for her; still the girl was not happy. She regained her health and strength very slowly, but no color returned to that delicate, lovely face--the beautiful eyes were always shadowed--no one ever saw her smile. As she grew stronger, she busied herself in doing all kinds of little services for Mrs. Chalmers; but this life among the middle class was all new to her. She had never known anything but the sombre magnificence of Queen's Chase and the hotel life at Bergheim. She was lost, and hardly knew what to do. It was new to her to live in small rooms--to be waited on by one servant--to hear and know all that passed in the household--new, strange, and bewildering to her. But she busied herself in attending to Mrs. Chalmers. She did many little services, too, for the doctor; and at last he grew to love the beautiful, sad face and plaintive voice as he had never loved anything before. She grew stronger, but not happier, and they became anxious about her. "It is so unnatural in a girl of her age," said Mrs. Chalmers; "the trouble must have been a great one, since she cannot forget it. In my opinion, Robert, nothing will rouse her but change of scene and work. She seems to be always in a sorrowful dream." What Mrs. Chalmers said the young girl often thought. After a time she wearied inexpressibly of the dull routine of her every-day life. "I am dying," she would say to herself--"dying of inanition. I must begin to work."