Roger looked up into her terror-stricken face, and said quietly, “Millie, I’m not afraid to die.  Indeed I half think it’s best.  I couldn’t go on in the old way much longer—­”

“Hush, hush,” she whispered.

“No,” he said decisively, “my mission to you is finished.  You will be an angel of mercy all your days, but I find that after all my ambitious dreams I’m but an ordinary man.  You are stronger, nobler than I am.  You are a soldier that will never be defeated.  You think to save my life by holding an artery, but the wound that was killing me is in my heart.  I don’t blame you, Millie—­I’m weak—­I’m talking at random—­”

“Roger, Roger, I’m not a soldier.  I am a weak, loving woman.  I love you with my whole heart and soul, and if you should not recover you will blot the sun out of my sky.  I now know what you are to me.  I knew it the moment I saw your unconscious face.  Roger, I love you now with a love like your own—­only it must be greater, stronger, deeper; I love you as a woman only can love.  In mercy to me, rally and live—­live!”

He looked at her earnestly a moment, and then a glad smile lighted up his face.

“I’ll live now,” he said quietly.  “I should be dead indeed did I not respond to that appeal.”

The surgeon appeared speedily, and again took up and tied the artery, giving stimulants liberally.  Roger was soon sleeping with a quietude and rest in his face that assured Mildred that her words had brought balm and healing to a wound beyond the physician’s skill, and that he would recover.  And he did gain hourly from the time she gave him the hope for which he had so long and so patiently waited.  It must be admitted that he played the invalid somewhat, for he was extremely reluctant to leave the hospital until the period of Mildred’s duties expired.

A few months later, with Mrs. Heartwold—­the Miss Wetheridge of former days—­by her side, she was driven to Roger’s house—­her home now.  The parlors were no longer empty, and she had furnished them with her own refined and delicate taste.  But not in the midst of their beauty and spaciousness was she married.  Mr. Wentworth stood beneath the portraits of her kindred, and with their dear faces smiling upon her she gave herself to Roger.  Those she loved best stood around her, and there was a peace and rest in her heart that was beyond joy.

When all were gone, Roger wheeled the low chair to its old place beside the glowing fire, and said: 

“Millie, at last we both have a home.  See how Belle is smiling at us.”

“Dear sister Belle,” Mildred murmured, “her words have come true.  She said, Roger, when I was fool enough to detest you, that you ‘would win me yet,’ and you have—­all there is of me.”

Roger went and stood before the young girl’s smiling face, saying earnestly: 

“Dear little Belle, ‘we shall have good times together yet,’ or else the human heart with its purest love and deepest yearning is a lie.”