I knew not how many hours or days had passed. When I opened my eyes I was lying on a hard straw bed on the floor of an unplastered attic room. I could see nothing from where I lay but the corner of a window through whose panes the sun streamed in, scarce hindered by the torn blue paper curtain. It shone upon the gorgeous patchwork counterpane upon my bed. It dazzled my eyes, which felt strangely weak. I tried to move, but could not stir; to speak, but could utter no sound. Presently, as I lay with closed eyes, I felt that some one had stooped from behind and looked at me. Then I heard a husky whisper,— “She’s sleepin’ real nateral, don’t ye worry a mite. _She_’s agoin’ ter git on, you can jest bet on that.” This was followed by a heavy tread which jarred my head with every movement like that of a giant trying to walk on tiptoe. There was a creaking of a door, then a slow, soft thump, thump, thump down the uncarpeted stairs, and all was still. I lay quiet, wondering what it all meant. Where was I, and what could be the matter? My head was confused. Was Mildred—hush, there was a voice near by talking low; it seemed behind me. “But it was not so; how could you have thought it so?” The voice sounded like Mildred’s. It was weak and trembling. “I went East to find you after it was all over between Agnes and me, but they said you were engaged, you had gone abroad. I could do nothing. I came back; I had my work, and I tried to live.” The other voice I did not know; it was husky and broken. There was silence again, and I heard a bustling and tramping about below, and outside the window locusts buzzing shrilly. Voices again. I could not but hear. It was Mildred’s voice. “But did you love me then in the beginning?” There was no answer at first; then it came, a little stronger and steadier than before. “I should have loved you then if I had dared, but I was pledged to Agnes; she had promised to be my wife. There came a day at Concord when I saw my danger. I knew that I must not dare to see you again. I prayed that I might be kept from being false to the woman whom I had asked to love me, so I went away and tried to forget. After all, I had known you for only a few days, and I had known her from childhood. She was true as steel. She trusted me; and when with her again I was glad to find at last that life could still be rich and sweet, and I be spared from baseness.” “Then why, why”—Mildred began; but she hesitated, and her voice died away.