Chapter Twenty-third.
"She was like
A dream of poetry, that may not be
Written or told—exceeding beautiful."
—Willis.
As Mildred sat at the open window of her dressing-room the next morning, enjoying the beauty of the landscape, the delicious perfume of myriads of dew-laden shrubs and flowers, the gentle summer breeze and the glad songs of the birds, her ear caught the patter of little feet in the corridor without, then a gentle rap upon her door.