"I insist on hearing the whole of it," said the colonel, with a smile.

And Mrs. Bloomfield began.

Let me say here once for all, that I cannot keep the tales I tell in
this volume from partaking of my own peculiarities of style, any more
than I could keep the sermon free of such; for of course I give them
all at second hand; and sometimes, where a joint was missing, I have
had to supply facts as well as words. But I have kept as near to the
originals as these necessities and a certain preparation for the press
would permit me.

Mrs. Bloomfield, I say, began:

"A good many years ago, now, on a warm summer evening, a friend, whom
I was visiting, asked me to take a drive with her through one of the
London parks. I agreed to go, though I did not care much about it. I
had not breathed the fresh air for some weeks; yet I felt it a great
trouble to go. I had been ill, and my husband was ill, and we had
nothing to do, and we did not know what would become of us. So I was
anything but cheerful. I _knew_ that all was for the best, as my good
husband was always telling me, but my eyes were dim and my heart was
troubled, and I could not feel sure that God cared quite so much for
us as he did for the lilies.

"My friend was very cheerful, and seemed to enjoy everything; but a
kind of dreariness came over me, and I began comparing the loveliness
of the summer evening with the cold misty blank that seemed to make up
my future. My wretchedness grew greater and greater. The very colours