y
legs inside his trousers, they lie so very flat; but of course one
couldn't ask. How monotonous it would be, my dear, to sit on a board
from morning till night. When I thought of that, it seemed so foolish
to fret about a ring... Your dear mother gave it to me one Christmas,
because I had such a desire to possess a ring. It was the only one I
ever had."

"Dear Miggles," cried Jean fondly, "I wonder you didn't have a dozen. I
wonder that every man you met didn't press one upon you. They would
have done so, if they had known what was good for them. You would have
made the dearest wife!"

Miggles smiled appreciatively.

"Well, dear, I _should_, though I say it myself. I should have made him
very comfortable. I have such a sympathy with men, poor dears, working
all day long, and banks failing, and upsetting their plans, and all the
bills to pay. They do deserve a little comfort at home. My nephew's
wife--Henry's--I can't help feeling she's been a little to blame. Of
course there's no denying that Henry _is_ rash, but he could have been
_guided_, and Florence is hasty. A nice girl, too--very nice. I
wouldn't say a word against her, but you can't help thinking sometimes,
and I'm sorry for Henry. Yes! I've always regretted that I never had
an offer. I was never pretty, like you, my dears; but personable, quite
personable. A gentleman once passed the remark that if he had been
young he would have wished nothing better than that nice,
wholesome-looking girl; but he was quite old--a colonel, home from
India, with a liver. When they are like that they admire a fresh
complexion. And of course he had a wife already. It would have been
pleasant to look back and remember that some one had wished to make me
his wife." Miggles gazed at the coffeepot with an air of placid regret,
which quickly melted into smiles. "But, however--he mightn't have
turned out well. One never knows, and I read a sweet little poem in a
magazine which might have been written to meet my case. She said (a
lady wrote it; I should think she had had a disappointment), `If I never
have a child of my own, with its little hands, and pattering feet, still
all the children of the world are mine, to love and to mother.' Such a
beautiful thought, was it not?"

"Beautiful, indeed, and so original. She was a great poet, my Miggles.
Talking of suitors, Piers Rendall is coming to tea. We'll have it here,
please. Piers likes a nursery tea set