for, often in her short life she had turned
from it with disdain; but that it seemed to
her right and fitting that she should be handsome,
proper that she should be proud.
Hildred gloried in all consciousness of power,
—and beauty was a power. She had never
wished to be deformed, or ugly; although
often she had disliked to read in people's
looks that they saw her beautiful. Hildred
was sorry, therefore, that she had disfigured
her hand; but she liked to feel Millie's
soft, caressing touch as she bound up the
wounds. Yet, when patched-up, it looked
very ugly, and Hildred transferred the two
or three splendid rings she always wore on it
to her other, that the wounded one might not
be so conspicuous.

It was growing afternoon, and clouding
over drearily; Millie looked chill. Hildred
proposed that they should go home, and they
wound their way down the hill-side.

Daylight was fading when the expected
lawyer came. Hildred had fancied that Millie
looked a shade paler than usual, and seemed
weary after the morning's ramble. She
said, she would not have her pretty head
troubled about business, and left her lying on
the sofa in the fire-lighted drawing-room.

For the first time since his death the uncle's
study was lighted up, and Hildred sat there
with the man of law.

As Millie lay thinking how sweet it was to
have a sister so strong, so wise, to take care
of her; wondering if it were sweeter yet to
have a mother, and then, perchance, pondering
deeply how it would be to have a husband
— her thinking, after awhile, became dreaming;
she did not stir when some one opened
the house-door, as if with a privileged hand;
when a firm step came through the hall; and,
after a moment's pause, into the very room.
The study was at the back of the house; Hildred
sitting there, bringing the whole power
of her intellect, concentrating her attention
upon the matter before her, heard nothing external
to that study, apart from that matter.
She had some trouble in persuading Mr.
Blankardt that it was any use for him to go
over the business with her; more—for he was
a sensible, conscientious, practical man—in
making him understand, that she had fully
determined, and that it was no use to oppose
her, upon a course of action he could not approve,
and from which he tried to dissuade
her; most of all, in extracting from him a
promise that (as she would have her own way),
he would take the necessary steps for her
when she sent him her final command to do
so: all this took time, energy, and what was
far more difficult to Hildred, patience.

Meanwhile, what was passing in the drawing-room?

That some one who had entered so unceremoniously,
came softly up to where the bright
fire-light played upon a fair, young head,
thrown back upon a crimson sofa-cushion, as
Millie lay dreaming with her hands folded,
crossed quietly upon her breast. That some
one was a large man, and he looked gigantic
in the dim, uncertain, light; yet he had
walked quite noiselessly up the room, and
bent down over the sweet, calm face, before
even an eyelash stirred. He bent very low;
and a heavy lock of his strong hair swept
across a pale cheek; then Millie awoke, in
tumultuous fright, conscious of a presence.
But when she sat up, and could be quite sure
that she was not still dreaming, no one was
near her; only a tall, dark figure stood by the
fire, a grave face was looking into it, its light
flashed upon a noble brow, and stern set
mouth.

Millie uttered a name with such a sweet
accent of simple glad surprise, that its owner
was quickly at her side. He not only took
her hands, both of them, but he drew her into
his arms, saying—

"You are mine, sweet Millie, is it not
so?"

She answered only "Yes."

"And you love me—very much?" he continued.

Vaguely thinking that he, perhaps, should
first say that to her. Millie remained silent.

"Millie! my Millie!" he went on, in a
tone she could not resist. "You must not be
proud and cold with me. I love you because
you are gentle, meek, infinitely sweet. I want
your love to soothe me, to give me rest. I
have had much pain and trouble, Millie."

Her little fingers tightened their grasp of
the great hand that held both hers. That
might have been answer enough surely; but
he was not satisfied, for he added—

"So, Millie, you must say, 'I do love you
very much, dear Erle.'"

A low tremulous voice repeated—

"I do! indeed, I do! I love you very much,
dear Erle!"

"That is right, sweet Millie. Now, how
are you? Have you been grieving much, my
child? Have you been alone all these long
days since I left you?" And he looked
down fondly upon her.

"No! My sister came! O Mr. Lyneward,
I love her dearly!" Millie began.

"Silly child! I am not Mr. Lyneward for
you any more, and I do not care to hear how
much you love anybody but me."

"And don't you love anybody but me?"
Millie asked, lifting up her head, fixing her
"wise-innocent" eyes on his. But he did not
answer, only kissed her eyes gravely, saying
softly—

"How pretty you are, Millie, my Millie!"
then he drew her down to him again, and—
sighed.

After a little he asked Millie why she wept,
for he felt warm tears drop down upon his
hand, and when she breathed out, that it was
because she was so happy, his strong arm
wrapped her round closer yet, and he said
reverently, "God keep you so!"

There was very little said during the hour