a
pretty name." Then suddenly, as though in a flash seeing all those
personal disadvantages which she usually contrived to ignore:

"Life's a queer lottery, Mil, my girl. We know what we are, we know not
what we shall be, as old Billy says. Who'd ever have thought that a
nice, quiet girl like Milly, marrying the lad of her heart and all that,
would come to such awful grief; while look at me--a queer kind of girl
you'd have laid your bottom dollar wouldn't have much luck, prospering
like anything, well up in the Science business, and now, what's ever so
much better, scrumptiously happy with a good sort of her own. Upon my
word, Mil, I've half a mind to fetch old M. back to sympathize with me,
for although you've said a peck of nice things, I don't believe you
understand what I'm feeling the way the old girl would."

Mildred went a little pale and spoke quickly.

"You won't do that really, Tims? You won't be so cruel to--to every
one?"

"I don't know. I don't see why you're always to be jolly and have
everything your own way. Oh, Lord! When I think how happy old M. was
when she was engaged, the same as I am, and then on her
wedding-day--just the same as I shall be on mine."

Mildred straightened out the frill of a muslin cushion cover, her head
bent.

"Just so. She had everything _her_ own way that time. I gave her that
happiness, it was all my doing. She's had it and she ought to be
content. Don't be a fool, Tims--" she lifted her face and Tims was
startled by its expression--"Can't you see how hard it is on me never to
be allowed the happiness you've got and Milly's had? Don't you think I
might care to know what love is like for myself? Don't you think I might
happen to want--I tell you I'm a million times more alive than
Milly--and I want--I want everything a million times more than she
does."

Tims was astonished.

"But it's always struck me, don't you know, that Ian was a deal more in
love with you than he ever was with poor old M."

"And you pretend to be in love and think that's enough! It's not enough;
you must know it's not. It's like sitting at a Barmecide feast, very
hungry, only the Barmecide's sitting opposite you eating all the time
and talking about his food. I tell you it's maddening, perfectly
maddening--" There was a fierce vehemence in her face, her voice, the
clinch of her slender hands on the muslin frill. That strong vitality
which before had seemed to carry her lightly as on wings, over