"You were nearer heaven in your boyhood, Mildred, than you have been since,
until this hour. We are travelling daily further from the East, until we
are summoned home again. The light of heaven is about us at the beginning
and the close of life. We lose it in middle age, when it is hid by the
world's false and unsubstantial glare."

"I understand something of what you say. I never dreaded this hour. I have
relied for grace, and it has come--but, Wilford"--

"What would you say?"

"Margaret."

"What of her?"

"If you could but know what she has done for me--how, for the last two
years, she has attended me--how she has sacrificed all things for me, and
for my comfort--how she has been, against my will, my servant and my
slave--you would revere her character as I do. Night after night has she
spent at my bedside; no murmur--no dull, complaining look--all
cheerfullness! I have been peevish and impatient--no return for the harsh
word, and harsher look. So young--so beautiful--so self devoted. I have
not deserved such love--and now it is snatched from me, as it should be"--

"You are excited, Mildred," said the good doctor. "You have said too much.
Rest now--rest."

"Let me see her," answered Mildred. "I cannot part with her an instant
now."