"Of what, Hildred?"

"That we are free of all obligations. It
is glorious to be free—free!"

Hiildred repeated the word, glancing out
with a fierce look in her eyes that told of her
having known some kind of slavery.

"I was getting sick of life," she went on;
"it was not life, it was only living death I
had with my aunt—great-aunt, as she was,
but would not be called great-aunt. Every
day I grew more wicked, Millie. I liked
better to be feared—hated—than loved by
them. Now I am free, I will live a glorious,
battling life! Much as I love you, I
should have been miserable again if, to take
of you, I had had to share your fortune
and life in respectable idleness."

"But, Hildred, if we are poor, what shall
we do? You will have to go back again;
and hadn't I better go out as a governess?"

"I go back again? Never! I should be
an idiot to do so. And you! You do not
think your being poor will make any difference
to that lover of yours, do you? If you
do, you—we—will starve, before you shall
marry him. But there will be no need to
starve, or even to want: I shall work, as I
have always longed to do."

Millie lifted up her eyes, and said quietly:

"O Hildred! I did not mean that. But
I should not like—he's not rich—and—"

"I see. But you are not penniless even
now: you shall still be a bit of an heiress."
And Hildred then first conceived a resolution
she afterwards acted out.

"But, Hildred, was not your aunt kind?
O, if I had but known you were not happy!"
Millie spoke so earnestly that tears came
into her eyes. "Why didn't you write?"

"Do you think I was going to tell you all
my wild troubles, child? I bore them, and
they did not break my spirit. Indeed, if I
had been a meek, mean, hypocritical creature,
I might have been very comfortable."

With what scorn she said the last word!

"If I wanted to go back ever so much,"
she added, "I could not. I lost all chance
of reinstatement by coming to you. Mine
was too good a place to be empty long. I
had a spiteful letter from the old lady this
morning, bidding me an affecting farewell,
and telling me of an amiable and accomplished
cousin of mine who is filling my
place to the old lady's entire satisfaction;
reminding me, too, that I could not live
on the miserable pittance left me by my
father!"

"You had other letters, hadn't you, Hildred?"

"One from this same heir in answer to an
epistle of mine. His is so polite that I feel
mine was unnecessarily bitter. He talks
about duty to those nearest him compelling
him to do what is painful, and such stuff as
that. Perhaps he satisfies his own conscience,
however."

"Your other letter?"

Hildred looked fearlessly into Millie's
inquiring eyes; but a richer colour came
into her cheeks as she answered:

"An enclosure in my aunt's. A cruel
letter," she went on dreamily; "yet it
pleases me well enough. Truly it has been
somewhat long in reaching me—five, six
months—well! thank you, aunt, that you
sent it at all, though it wasn't out of kindness
you did so. I shall see now what truth
there is in some of these fine words. If they
are true, why then, the 'world is not so
bitter but a smile may make it sweet' for
somebody. But tell me, Millie, child, is it
true that men are deceivers ever? Do you
expect to find any man constant, loving one
for oneself alone?"

"I would I were dead if not," Millie answered
faintly.

"Is it so, Millie?" Hildred said, half-startled
at the fervency of that low reply.
Stooping down, she pressed a kiss on the
girl's forehead, saying, "That is right; be
thorough in all your life."

"Dear Hildred, some of us have to suffer:
no one suffers thoroughly who does not suffer
patiently."

"Suffer! You shall not know much about
suffering if I can help it. Now, tell me,"
she went on, "when does this mysterious
friend of yours, whose name I have not heard
you name yet—when does he return?"

"Very soon—any day. O Hildred!
when you see him, you will think it strange
that he cares for such a girl as I am. I never
could fancy it true, that he liked me much, till
—till I was in great trouble, and then he was
so tender—But I don't like talking about
this, even to you, for he has never said to me
plainly that—"

"That he loves you: wishes to marry
you?"

"So I don't feel as if it were right to talk
about it."

"Ah! when he comes back you will not
care much about poor Hildred any more."

"I shall, Hildred, you know I shall, I am
not fickle, I never forget. But isn't it odd?
He did not even know I had a sister until a
few days before he left. You see, I did not
know you well, didn't love you, or I should
have spoken about you. When I thought of ,
you, Hildred, it used always to be with fear."

"Why, silly one?"

"I don't know; I had heard you were very
proud—and so you are. I thought you would
despise poor me, but you don't. I was
right in picturing you in other things,
though. When I crept into the room, the day
you came, and, before you knew I was
come, saw you standing erect, stately, there,
by the window, looking so grand in that
splendid dress (you have not had it on since),
I knew directly that you were my queenly
sister, Hildred."

"And what did Queen Hildred do, child?"