Mildred’s farewell to her own private apartment was full of touching pathos.  This room was the outward expression not merely of a refined taste, but of some of the deepest feelings and characteristics of her nature.  In its furniture and adornment it was as dainty as her own delicate beauty.  She had been allowed to fit it up as she wished, and had lavished upon it the greater part of her spending money.  She had also bestowed upon it much thought, and the skilful work of her own hands had eked out to a marvellous extent the limited sums that her father had been able to give her.  The result was a prettiness and light, airy grace which did not suggest the resting-place of an ordinary flesh-and-blood girl, but of one in whom the spiritual and the love of the beautiful were the ruling forces of life.

It is surprising how character impresses itself on one’s surroundings.  Mrs. Arnold’s elegant home was a correct expression of herself.  Stately, formal, slightly rigid, decidedly cold, it suggested to the visitor that he would receive the courtesy to which his social position entitled him, and nothing more.  It was the result of an exact and logical mind, and could no more unbend into a little comfortable disorder than the lady herself.  She bestowed upon its costly appointments the scrupulous care which she gave to her children, and her manner was much the same in each instance.  She was justly called a strong character, but she made herself felt after the fashion of an artist with his hammer and chisel.  Carved work is cold and rigid at best.

Mildred had not as yet impressed people as a strong character.  On the contrary, she had seemed peculiarly gentle and yielding.  Vinton Arnold, however, in his deep need had instinctively half guessed the truth, for her influence was like that of a warm day in spring, undemonstrative, not self-asserting, but most powerful.  The tongue-tied could speak in her presence; the diffident found in her a kindly sympathy which gave confidence; men were peculiarly drawn toward her because she was so essentially womanly without being silly.  Although as sprightly and fond of fun as most young girls of her age, they recognized that she was perfectly truthful and loyal to all that men—­even bad men—­most honor in a woman.  They always had a good time in her society, and yet felt the better and purer for it.  Life blossomed and grew bright about her from some innate influence that she exerted unconsciously.  After all there was no mystery about it.  She had her faults like others, but at heart she was genuinely good and unselfish.  The gentle mother had taught her woman’s best graces of speech and manner; nature had endowed her with beauty, and to that the world always renders homage.