."

The doctor moved uneasily in his chair, and glanced at the clock.

"Oh, hush!" he said. "Do not----"

"No!" cried Myra. "You must not stop me. Let me at last have the relief
of speech! My friend, I am twenty-eight; I have had ten years of married
life; yet I do not believe I have ever really grown up! In heart and
brain I am an undeveloped child, and I know it; and, worse still, Michael
knows it, and--_Michael does not mind_. Listen! It dates back to years
ago. Mamma never allowed any of her daughters to grow up. We were
permitted no individuality of our own, no opinions, no independence. All
that was required of us, was to 'do her behests, and follow in her
train.' Forgive the misquotation. We were always children in mamma's
eyes. We grew tall; we grew good-looking; but we never grew up. We
remained children, to be snubbed, domineered over, and bullied. My
sisters, who were good children, had plenty of jam and cake; and,
eventually, husbands after mamma's own heart were found for them. Perhaps
you know how those marriages have turned out?"

Lady Ingleby paused, and the doctor made an almost imperceptible sign of
assent. One of the ladies in question, a most unhappy woman, was under
treatment in his Mental Sanatorium at that very moment; but he doubted
whether Lady Ingleby knew it.

"I was the black sheep," continued Myra, finding no remark forthcoming.
"Nothing I did was ever right; everything I did was always wrong. When
Michael met me I was nearly eighteen, the height I am now, but in the
nursery, as regards mental development or knowledge of the world; and, as
regards character, a most unhappy, utterly reckless, little child.
Michael's love, when at last I realised it, was wonderful to me.
Tenderness, appreciation, consideration, were experiences so novel that
they would have turned my head, had not the elation they produced been
counterbalanced by a gratitude which was overwhelming; and a terror of
being handed back to mamma, which would have made me agree to anything.
Years later, Michael told me that what first attracted him to me was a
look in my eyes just like the look in those of a favourite spaniel of
his, who was always in trouble with everyone else, and had just been
accidentally shot, by a keeper. Michael told me this himself; and really
thought I should be pleased! Somehow it gave me the key to my standing
with him--just that of a very tenderly-loved pet dog. No words can say
how good he has alwa