and for that being, innocent, trusting, which their love had called
into life. So, dimly, she had dreamed in the radiant days of old.
Almost she could feel his hand upon her shoulder, hear his voice full
of tenderness that expressed itself only in tone, not in word, taking
refuge from too great feeling in jest. She closed her eyes against the
vision that made her faint with anguish.

Some one entered the room with a brisk little trot; Millicent opened
her eyes and turned her head. A small woman, "old maid" from the top
of her neat gray head to the toe of her list shoes, came forward. She
held a pad and pencil and wore the badge of authority in her manner.
At sight of Millicent she paused, blinking behind her glasses.
Millicent came slowly out of her trance; recognition dawned upon her.
She rose.

"Miss Hayter--Aunt Harriet!" she cried, advancing.

"It is you, then!" chirped the elder lady. "My dear, who could have
expected this?"

"Not I, for one!" She held both Miss Hayter's hands. "I had no idea
you were here. Surely you haven't given up your beloved Boston
school?"

"Oh no. Only in the summer I come here for a month and substitute for
the regular curator while she is on her vacation. It"--she struggled
against a constitutional distaste for self-revelation--"it seems like
a little visit with Will, somehow."

Millicent's throat throbbed with a strangled sob. No one had spoken