'You shall have roast chicken to-morrow, or would you like them
boiled?'

'I don't mind,' said Mildred, more disappointed at the failure of her
joke than at the too substantial fare that awaited her. 'Poor Harold,'
she thought, 'is the best of fellows, but, like all of them, he can't
see a joke. The cooking I can alter, but he'll always remain boiled
and roast leg of mutton.'

But, though with little sense of humour, Harold was not as dense as
Mildred thought. He saw that her spirits were forced, that she was in
ill-health, and required a long rest. So he was not surprised to hear
in the morning that she was too tired to come down to breakfast; she
had a cup of tea in her room, and when she came down to the dining-
room she turned from the breakfast table. She could touch nothing, and
went out of doors to see what kind of day it was.

The skies were grey and lowering, the little avenue that led to the
gate was full of dead leaves; they fluttered down from the branches;
the lawn was soaked, and the few flowers that remained were pale and
worn. A sense of death and desolation pervaded the damp, moist air;
Mildred felt sorrow mounting in her throat, and a sense of dread,
occasioned by the sudden showering of a bough, caused her to burst
into tears. She had no strength left, she felt that she was going to
be ill, and trembled lest she should die.

To die, and she so young! No, she would live, she would succeed. But
to do that she must take more care of her health. She would eat no
more bon-bons; she threw the box away. And, conquering her repugnance