“Of course he will,” answered Oliver, and Mildred was about to ask if he believed she’d get the letter the next night, when old Hepsy came up and said to her rather stiffly: “You’ve talked with him long enough. He’s all beat out now. It’s curis what little sense some folks has.”
“Grandmother,” Oliver attempted to say, but Mildred’s little hand was placed upon his lips, and Mildred herself said:
“She’s right, Olly. I have worried you to death. I’m afraid I do you more hurt than good by coming to see you so often.”
He knew she did, but he would not for that that she should stay away, even though her thoughtless words caused him many a bitter pang.
“Come again to-morrow,” he said, as she went from his side, and telling him that she would, she bounded down the stairs, taking with her, as the poor, sick Oliver thought, all the brightness, all the sunshine, and leaving in its stead only weariness and pain.
Up the Cold Spring path she ran, blithe as a singing-bird, for she saw the Judge upon the back piazza, and knew he had returned.
“Come here, Gipsy,” he cried, and in an instant Mildred was at his side. “Broke up in a row, didn’t we?” he said, parting back her hair, and tapping her rosy chin. “How far along had he got?”
“He hadn’t got along at all,” answered Mildred, “and I don’t believe he was going to say anything, do you?”
Much as he wished to tease her, the Judge could not resist the pleading of those eyes, and he told her all he knew of the matter, bidding her wait patiently until to-morrow night, and see what the mail would bring her.
“Oh, I wish it were to-morrow now,” sighed Mildred. “I’m afraid there’s some mistake, and that he didn’t mean me after all.”