his name in so long! Her people had had no interest but to banish the
memory of him from her heart; this quaint little aunt of his, who had
adored him and lived for him, was the first who had spoken of him
in--she did not know how many years. She held tight to the old hands,
her eyes clung to the withering face. "Say it again," she whispered;
"say his name."

"Why, my dear," cried the older woman, "is it still as hard as this?
Come, sit down here with me. Of course I knew that you were not one of
the changing kind,"--Millicent winced,--"but I'm sorry to think you
should suffer now as keenly as you do."

"It is not just that," said Millicent, shamefacedly. "Only, seeing you
unexpectedly gave me a pang. And then, being in the place he built--"

The older woman patted her hand soothingly. "I understand," she said.
"I've always understood. When--when you didn't write after the very
first, I knew it was because you couldn't, not because you forgot. You
were really made for each other, you two. I think I never saw two such
radiant, happy creatures in the world. Ah, well!" she wiped a sudden
dew from her glasses, "waiting's hard, my dear, but it ends,--it
ends."

Millicent was hurt by the unbroken faith in her, by the unquestioning
belief she could not share. She looked wistfully upon the shining,
tearful eyes.

"It is very beautiful to think that," she said, "but, dear Aunt
Harriet, you are mistaken about me. I am going to tell you everything.
I--I loved your nephew. I shall not love any one else. It happened to