little street!--what frightfully new and yet
picturesque houses! They look like dove-cotes. I wonder if this pair of
turtle-doves coo in their nest all day long."

The footman jumped down and rang the doorbell. In a moment a
neatly-dressed but very young looking servant stood in the open doorway.

"Yes, Mrs. Quentyns was at home," she said, and Mildred entered Hilda's
pretty house.

She went into the drawing room, and stood somewhat impatiently waiting
for her hostess to appear. The little room was furnished with an eye to
artistic effect, the walls were decorated with good taste. The furniture
was new, as well as pretty. One beautiful photogravure from Burne Jones'
"Wheel of Fortune" was hung over the mantelpiece. Hilda and Quentyns,
faithfully represented by an Italian photographer, stood side by side in
a little frame on one of the brackets. Mildred felt herself drawing one
or two heavy sighs.

"I don't know what there is about this little room, but I like it," she
murmured; "nay, more, I love it. I can fancy good people inhabiting it.
I am quite certain that Love has not yet flown out of the window. I am
quite sure, too, of another thing, that even if Poverty does come in at
this door, Love will remain. Oh, silly Hilda, what have you to do with
the 'Wheel of Fortune'? your position is assured; you dwell safely
enthroned in the heart of a good man. Oh, happy Hilda!"

The door was opened, and Hilda Quentyns smiling, with roses on her
cheeks and words of delighted welcome on her lips, rushed into the room.

"How sweet of you to call, Mildred," she exclaimed. "I was just
wondering if you would take any notice of me."

"You dear creature," said Mildred, kissing Hilda and patting her on the
shoulder. "Two hours ago I heard for the first time that you were in
London. I ate my lunch and ordered the victoria, and put on my prettiest
bonnet and drove over to see you as fast as ever the horses would bring
me. I could not well pay my respects to Mrs. Quentyns in a shorter
time."

"I am very glad to see you," said Hilda.

"How childish you look," replied Mildred, gazing at her in a rather
dissatisfied way; "you have no responsibilities at all now, your Jasper
takes the weight of everything, and you live in perpetual sunshine. Is
the state of bliss as blissful as we have always been led to imagine,
Hilda, or are the fairy tales untrue, and does the prince only exist in
one's imagination?"

"Oh, no, he is real, quite