“These men have loved me in a rough, hearty way, and I thank God for it, for sometimes the loneliness has been terrible. “Agnes married a missionary and went to India, and after a while I saw that it was best so, though it was bitter to me at first. “I felt that you, the only other woman for whom I ever had cared, had forgotten me. I did not dare to think that you had remembered me, but I could not rest until I knew. I made the long journey East. I felt that I could not be denied until I had heard the final word from your lips. I reached Boston the very day that you sailed from New York; and I heard that you were to marry a rich man on your return. “Well, I tried to bear it as best I could. I came back to my work. After the little glimpse of civilization and comfort that I had had, this dreary little place seemed drearier still; but I had brought books with me, and they helped me. “One day, as I sat here feeling lonely, wretched, forlorn, I picked up my Thomas à Kempis, and suddenly a light seemed to break in upon me, and I said, ‘O fool, you with strength and vigor and opportunities, you who have the inherited wisdom of the world at your command, you the heir of all the ages, the son of a King!—shall _you_ mourn and complain because Heaven denies you one boon? When was it ever decreed that you should be so favored above all other mortals as to be completely happy in this world of pain? Should the servant be above his Master?’ “So then I tried to learn to be content. I found something better than happiness,—it has been blessedness. “I study when I can. But I am studying humanity chiefly. I am learning how to fill the needs of these brothers of mine. I am trying to show them that there is something better than the gold which seems to them the only thing worth working for. Yes, I love my work.” There was a note of exultation in the voice, weak though it was, which thrilled me. I think I must have dozed, for the voices again sounded faint and far away. Presently as I returned to consciousness I heard the voice saying in little broken gasps of pain, “But oh, Mildred darling, do you know what this means? Do you know what it means when you promise to be willing to take me for better or for worse? You love books and pictures and music and beauty. Can I consent to see you deprived of them all, to share my lot? “You do not know me yet. You are grateful to me for saving you; but it was simple humanity—humanity, nothing more. I was a fool to speak out as I did just now; it was only my weakness and selfishness. No, I cannot let you bind yourself yet; wait till you are well, till your friends come. “You say they have wealth. What will they think of your giving them all up to settle in this dismal place and be the wife of a man who has not five hundred dollars in the world, and can offer you nothing but a life of toil?