"No, I ran down for a week only. In fact, I only stayed three or four days. I had to hurry back to London. So I promised your good doctor to come again, and to stay a little longer. He and I are firm friends. Now, do you think you are wise to stay here in the cold?" This question came in a half-coaxing tone of remonstrance, as to a child.
"No, perhaps not; but I wanted a minute or two of rest, before starting for home."
"Then we are both going the same way. You will let me see you safely to the village. You are excuse me—hardly old enough to wander alone in these lonely roads."
"I feel very old! And I have no fear, with Hero. No one dares to touch me when he is here. He does not seem to mind you."
"I have spoken to Hero several times,—meeting him in the village. He is a fine fellow."
"I owe my life to him. But for Hero, I could not have escaped from the wreck."
"So I was told. And you are of course very grateful to him. You could not be otherwise."
Mildred walked silently for some seconds. "Yes," she said at length, "I am grateful now. I see that life is worth keeping, that it must be worth keeping, no matter how lonely or how sad one may be,—because there is always something to be done for somebody, and because it is God's gift to us, and meant to be valued. But that day, when you found me in the Churchyard, I was not grateful at all. It seemed to me that it would have been so very much happier, if only I had been taken too, with my brother and the little one. I had no one left, and life seemed to have no object."
"I remember. That was what you felt; one could see it. I wished that I could make you see how close a tie there really is between all brother men, and—" with a slight break,—"'specially those who are of the Household of Faith.'"
"You did help me to see it. I began to understand from that hour. You did not say much, but what you did say took hold of me."