bear without that.
But there's one thing, it's just as well I found out before the story
was published. Because Edgar isn't dead. His ship has been towed in:
he's at home."

Jane laughed.

"Don't cry, dear," said Milly; "I'll help you to bear it. Only--oh dear,
how awful it is for you!--he's going to be married."

Jane laughed again; and then she thinks the great, green waves really
did rise up all round the quaint dining-room--rise mountains high, and,
falling, cover her.

* * * * *

Jane was ill so long that Milly had to tell Edgar about the story after
all, and they sent it in, and it was published in Jane's name. So the
little brothers were all right. And he wrote the next story for her too,
and they corrected the proofs together.

Jane has always thought it a pity that Milly had not troubled to ask the
name of the girl whom Edgar intended to marry, because the name proved,
on enquiry, to be Jane.

V

THE MILLIONAIRESS

I

It is a dismal thing to be in London in August. The streets are up for
one thing, and your cab can never steer a straight course for the place
you want to go to. And the trees are brown in the parks, and every one
you know is away, so that there would be nowhere to go in your cab, even
if you had the money to pay for it, and you could go there without
extravagance.

Stephen Guillemot sat over his uncomfortable breakfast-table in the
rooms he shared with his friend, and cursed his luck. His friend was
away by the sea, and he was here in the dirty and sordid blackness of
his Temple chambers. But he had no money for a holiday; and when
Dornington had begged him to accept a loan, he had sworn at Dornington,
and Dornington had gone off not at all pleased. And now Dornington was
by the sea, and he was here. The flies buzzed in the panes and round the
sticky marmalade jar; the sun poured in at the open window. There was no
work to do. Stephen was a solicitor by trade; but, in fact and perforce,
an idler. No business came to him. All day long the steps of clients
sounded on the dirty, old wooden staircase--clients for Robinson on the
second, for Jones on the fourth, but none for Guillemot on the third.
Even now steps were coming, though it was only ten o'clock. The young
man glanced at the marmalade jar, at the crooked cloth stained with tea,
which his laundress had spread for his breakfast.

"Suppose it is a client----" He broke off with a laugh. He