"It is hard on the poor thing," she added as the door closed. "You see, she has plenty of brains, and is not domesticated."
"She can think, but not feel," I said; then repented. "Well, it is hard, as you say, after all. So much beauty, life, movement shut away from light and enjoyment in that dull house. Youth and crabbed age, my dear."
"Yes," she answered; "perhaps things would be different if there was not something missing in the house——"
"Mother! mother!" Milly called; "I want you."
"That's it, she smiled, catching the child in her arms.
II
When I passed Walter Barrington's house in the days that followed, I always looked up at the windows, wondering if I should see the little old man. It was curious that he had up to this been unnoticed by me, or, if noticed, only as part of the moving traffic of the street. He had been like the milkman's little pony which stopped by our gate each day, or the
