The gladness dies a little out of my face and voice; I feel ruffled and vaguely chilled. I have not seen her since her marriage, and she might have looked at my face, not my hat; besides, under the shadow of just such an one had Milly walked for all the years of her life before she married. As we drive away, she asks for all at home kindly enough, but already, I think, her husband and child fill her heart, and the pomps and vanities, and gauds and pleasures of her new life have shouldered away the memory of the old one at home. As I look at her I marvel if she ever could have dodged papa round corners, and gone water-cressing, or worn a sun-bonnet and double skirts? And although I shut my eyes tight, and try to conjure up the vision, I cannot.
"Where is Alice?" I ask. "I thought she would have come with you?"
"Charles is driving her this afternoon, but she will be in by the time we reach the Court."
"I am longing to see the babies," I say, looking at Milly's dress, and thinking what uncommonly fine birds fine feathers will make. (I am sure I could be made very presentable.)
"Mine is a splendid boy," says Milly, warming up directly: "he has the Luttrell skin and hair, and his eyes———" Words fail Milly at this point.
"And Alice's!"
"The youngest is a nice child."
"How droll it seems to think of Alice as a mamma with two children! And I have never seen the last one yet."
"Have you many people staying with you?"
"Not many—a dozen or so. There is Fane!"
We are in the park now, and across the grass comes a tall, bonny, fair-haired young-fellow, with a sunshiny face and a bright manner that makes every heart warm to him. It was but little
