"It follows that we had better go away," said Mrs. Jocelyn, with
her low, sweet laugh, that had been rarely heard of late; "but I
don't like you to be unjust to the young fellow. After all, he's
not so very much to blame, Millie," she added, with a little nod.
"If I were he I fear I might be in the same fix."

"Oh, papa, now we must go; for if mamma's sympathies are once
aroused in behalf of this 'steady, well-meaning young man'--there!
I will talk no more nonsense to-night, although I often find
nonsense a sort of life preserver that keeps me from sinking. I
admit, mamma, that I have been unjust to Mr. Atwood. He's far more
clever than I ever imagined him to be, but he's so different"--she
finished the sentence with a little repellent gesture that her
mother well understood.

They were all comforted, and far more hopeful from their frank
interchange of thought and feeling, and both father and mother
breathed a fervent "God bless you, Millie," as they separated, long
past midnight.

"God will bless us," said the young girl, "if we will just simply
try to do what is right and best every day. The blessing will come
on doing, not waiting."

She had not been in her room very long before hearing the crunching
of gravel under the wheels of Roger's buggy. With a smile she
thought, "He must have found a more sympathizing ear and heart than
mine to have remained out so late."