Polly ran to meet them; her lover's pale and disordered appearance alarmed her almost as much as Mildred's did.
'Oh, Heriot!' cried the young girl, 'you are hurt; I am sure you are hurt.'
'A strain, nothing else,' he returned, quickly; 'run on, dear Polly, and open the door for us. Mrs. Sowerby must take us in for a little while.'
When Mildred perfectly recovered consciousness, she was lying on the old-fashioned couch in Mrs. Sowerby's best room; but she was utterly spent and broken, and could do nothing for a little while but weep hysterically.
Polly lent over her, raining tears on her hands.
'Oh, Aunt Milly,' sobbed the faithful little creature, 'what should we have done if we had lost you? Darling—darling, how dreadful it would have been.'
'I wished to die,' murmured Mildred, half to herself; 'but I never knew how terrible death could be. Oh, how sinful—how ungrateful I have been.' And she covered her face with her hands.
'Oh, Heriot; ask her not to cry so,' pleaded poor Polly. 'I have never seen her cry before, never—and it hurts me so.'
'It will do her good,' he returned, hastily; but he went and stood by the window, until Polly joined him.
'She is better now,' she said, timidly glancing up into his absorbed face.