A sudden spasm crossed Mildred's gentle face, but she soon controlled herself. She must get used to these sharp pangs, these recollections of the happy, innocent past; she had misunderstood her friend, that was all.
'Dear Aunt Milly, make me worthier of his love,' whispered the girl, with tears in her eyes; 'he is so noble, my benefactor, my almost father, and now he is going to make me his wife, and I am so young and childish.'
And she clung to Mildred, quivering with vague irrepressible emotion.
'Hush, you will be his sunbeam, as you have been ours. What did he call you—his heartsease? You must keep that name, my pet.'
'But—but you will teach me, he thinks so much of you; he says you are the gentlest, and the wisest, and the dearest friend he has ever had. Where are you going, Aunt Milly?' for Mildred had gently disengaged herself from the girl's embrace.
'Hush, we ought to go down; you must not keep me any longer, dear Polly; he will expect—it is my duty to see him.'
Mildred was adjusting her hair and dress with cold, shaking fingers, while Polly stood by and shyly helped her.
'It does not matter how you look,' the girl had said, with innocent unconscious sarcasm; 'you are so tired, the tumbled gray alpaca will do for to-night.'
'No, it does not matter how I look,' replied Mildred, calmly.
A colourless weary face and eyes, with an odd shine and light in them, were reflected between the dimly-burning candles. Polly stood beside her slim and conscious; she had dried her tears, and a sweet honest blush mantled her young cheeks. The little foot tapped half impatiently on the floor.