his name in so long! Her people had had no interest but to banish the memory of him from her heart; this quaint little aunt of his, who had adored him and lived for him, was the first who had spoken of him in--she did not know how many years. She held tight to the old hands, her eyes clung to the withering face. "Say it again," she whispered; "say his name." "Why, my dear," cried the older woman, "is it still as hard as this? Come, sit down here with me. Of course I knew that you were not one of the changing kind,"--Millicent winced,--"but I'm sorry to think you should suffer now as keenly as you do." "It is not just that," said Millicent, shamefacedly. "Only, seeing you unexpectedly gave me a pang. And then, being in the place he built--" The older woman patted her hand soothingly. "I understand," she said. "I've always understood. When--when you didn't write after the very first, I knew it was because you couldn't, not because you forgot. You were really made for each other, you two. I think I never saw two such radiant, happy creatures in the world. Ah, well!" she wiped a sudden dew from her glasses, "waiting's hard, my dear, but it ends,--it ends." Millicent was hurt by the unbroken faith in her, by the unquestioning belief she could not share. She looked wistfully upon the shining, tearful eyes. "It is very beautiful to think that," she said, "but, dear Aunt Harriet, you are mistaken about me. I am going to tell you everything. I--I loved your nephew. I shall not love any one else. It happened to come to me in perfectness when I was young--love. But I live, I am well, I am alive to pleasure and pain. How shall I fill up my life but with the things that still matter to me?" "You think of marrying, you mean?" Aunt Harriet's voice was dry and harsh. "Well--I am sure Will would wish your happiness, and I--it would not be for me to object. Every day it is done, and very often rightly, I suppose; for money, for companionship, for the chance of self-development, women marry without love. I--I could only wish you happiness." "You--do not understand." "My dear,"--her voice softened again; something in the pallor and the quivering pain of the girl touched her,--"I do not mean to speak hardly to you. It seems to me like this: when it comes to piecing out a life that has been broken, as yours was--as mine was, my dear, as mine was--there are two ways of doing it. Either you keep your ideal of perfect love, and lead your poor every-day life of odds and ends, like mine, filling your days with the best scraps of pleasure or usefulness you may, or you give up your ideal of perfect love and