afternoon. As the wife of a millionaire, with a
professional cook in the kitchen who tolerated her mistress's incursions
at stated hours only; with a wardrobe full of new clothes, and a French
maid to sew up every hole almost before it made an appearance; with a
gardener who did not like interference, and a patriarchal butler who
said, "Allow me, madam!" if she dared to lift a hand for herself, life
was not really half so amusing as in the dear old days, when she could
make potato cakes for tea, re-trim old dresses, with Bridgie as model,
and sit perched on one of the empty stages in the conservatory, while
Dennis confided his latest love experiences and the gossip of the
countryside.

Esmeralda had longed for riches all her life, and for the most part
found the experience to her taste, but there were occasions when she
felt fettered by the golden chains. When Bridgie wrote of her
experiences in that funny, cramped little house, of her various devices
for making sixpence do duty for a shilling, of excursions about London,
when she rode with the boys on the tops of omnibuses and dined
luxuriously at an ABC, it was not pity, but envy, which filled
Esmeralda's bosom as she drove in state behind coachman and footman to
pay dull, proper calls on the county magnates.

It was cold and dark in the gallery this December afternoon, so she went
downstairs into the room which had been dedicated to lessons, when Miss
Minnitt the governess tried to instil knowledge into half a dozen
ignorant heads. It was now metamorphosed into a luxuriant little
boudoir, with pots of hothouse plants banked on the table, a couch piled
with silken cushions taking the place of the old horsehair sofa, a
charming grate, all glowing copper and soft green tiles, and beside it a
deep arm-chair and a pile of books to while away an idle hour.
Esmeralda yawned and flicked over the pages of the topmost of the pile,
looked at the beginning to see if it promised excitement, peeped at the
last sentence of all to make sure there was no heart-breaking
separation, finally sank down into the chair, and settled herself to
read.

There was something wanting for perfect enjoyment, however, for in the
old days she and Bridgie had agreed that the charms of an interesting
book could only be thoroughly appreciated to an accompaniment of crisp
sweet apples. Esmeralda O'Shaughnessy had been wont to climb up into
the loft and bring down as many rosy baldwins as she could