mory came to her of how once before, a few weeks before
Milly was born, she had so sat in that very room, and had longed
inexpressibly for that other husband; of how she had felt that she
would die of fright and of longing for his comforting presence if he
did not come; of how he had come at last, bringing warmth and love and
courage to her failing heart; of how he had laughed, and said he had
felt she was wanting him, and so had put what he was doing on one side
and hurried to her. And as she thought of this, lying with shut eyes in
her armchair, a curious feeling that he was there again with her in the
room, took possession of her. She was not afraid; she lay quite still,
hardly breathing, feeling "Harry is here! If I open my eyes I shall see
him."

And often, in the weeks that followed, she was haunted by that strange
consciousness of her first husband's presence; the curious, forcible
impression that there was between her and him but a slight veil she
lacked the resolution to rend, but that, rending it one day, she should
see him.

Then Harold Walsh's child was born, and these unhealthy fancies were
naturally vanquished.

It was a son, and there was much rejoicing. Poor little Milly's nose,
it was said, must indeed be put out of joint by this advent of an heir
to his father's large estates.

The child was born at Royle, his father's place, and christened there,
while Milly had stayed on in her own home with her grandmother; the
home where she had been born, where her father and mother had passed
their brief married life together. When the son and heir was two months
old, he came with his father and mother to stay in that house also.
Then her mother and the neighbours who had known her through all her
experiences of joy and of sorrow were glad to see that the Major's wife
had got back her health and spirits and happiness.

The boy was a fine boy, and his mother idolised him; the father,
contrary to general expectation, continued to be very much in love.
They were a prosperous and happy trio, seeming to suffice to
themselves. Little Milly, who had longed for her mother and the new
brother, found herself of comparatively small importance, and decidedly
on the outside of the completed circle.

Who can measure the bitterness, the desolation, which no
after-experience of the unkind tricks of destiny can ever equal, of the
little heart which feels it is not wanted where it longs to cling?

Then Milly's birthday ca