"What is this, Anna?" she asked.

Anna told her.

"Riverfield?" Millicent repeated the name, but in a strange voice.
Anna stared a little.

"Yes. Why? Do you know any one here?"

"No." The word trickled slowly, unwillingly, from Millicent.

"Lovely town, and there are some good places outside," said Anna. "The
Ostranders have one, and Jimson, the artist. But the native city, or
whatever you call it, is adorable. It has that air of rewarded virtue
which makes one ashamed of one's life--"

"I wish"--Millicent still spoke remotely, as if out of a sleep--"I
wish, Mr. Brockton, that we might find a little library and museum
they have here."

"Why, of course!"

"Are you going to compare it with the Vatican, Millicent?" asked Anna,
flippantly. Millicent turned a distant, starry gaze upon her cousin.

"No," she said; and then, in a flash of sympathy and fright, Anna
remembered that it had been for some little Berkshire town that Will
Hayter had built a library and museum just before his death, six years
before--the town from which his family had originally come. Her memory