“Nay, it is hardest then,” saith she. “‘Much would have more.’”
“What wist Aunt Joyce thereabout?” murmurs Milly, so that I could just hear. “She never lacked nought she wanted.”
“Getting oldish, Milly, but not going deaf, thank God,” saith Aunt Joyce, of her dry fashion. “Nay, child, thou art out there. Time was when I desired one thing, far beyond all other things in this world, and did not get it.”
“Never, Aunt?”
“Never, Milly.” And a somewhat pained look came into her face, that is wont to seem so calm.
“What was it, Aunt Joyce, sweet heart?”
“Well, I took it for fine gold, and it turned out to be pinchbeck,” saith she. “There’s a deal of that sort of stuff in this world.”
Methought Milly feared to ask further, and all was still till Edith saith—
“Would you avise us, Aunt Joyce, to keep a chronicle, even though things did not happen?”
“Things will happen, trust me,” she made answer. “Ay, dear maids, methinks it should be profitable for you.”