You ask whether I am married or am going to be. The first question I have answered; as to the second, the most that I can say is that when a woman has lived a dozen years beyond sweet sixteen and has never been very deeply in love, it argues either that she has lived like a nun, or something rather uncomplimentary to her heart, and that there is precious little prospect of her ever finding the right one after that. They say no woman ever fails of some time having at least one suitor. Well, I have had my one. A burly, broad-chested business man he was, with very decided ideas about protection and mining stock, with a good deal of amused wonder at my independence of thought and action, and a chivalrous old-fashioned pity for gentlewomen who had to earn their living. He felt pretty desperately when I said “no,” and I had to say it three or four times before he could believe it, for he had been so sure that a poor young creature like me must long for his strong arm and good bank account to shield her from the “world’s cold blasts.” I did like him, I confess, but not enough; not as I must love the one to whom I would gladly, heartily, pledge my whole self for life. So, one bright spring day he sailed away for South America and never returned. He married a Spanish wife, I hear, who will inherit his millions, for he made shrewd investments and became enormously wealthy. The “Herald” had a dispatch yesterday morning announcing his death from sunstroke. It gave me a shock. Yes, he was a good man, and I did like him; but I am glad I am not his widow in spite of his millions. We were talking at lunch to-day about wealth, and when I answered the question “How much money would you wish for if you could have your wish?” by saying “Twenty-five millions,” every one looked aghast. “What, _you_, Mildred, of all persons! Why, you never cared for diamonds or horses or yachts or anything grand,” exclaimed one. “What in the world would you do with it?” asked another. “You couldn’t spend half a million with your modest tastes, and the rest would be simply a dead weight. You would be bored to death with lawyers and beggars, and have brain fever in six weeks.” “Oh no,” interposed a third; “she would buy shoes for all the barefoot children, and build colleges from Alaska to Key West.” “If you were like most people you would find it the hardest thing in the world to spend your money wisely,” said auntie, sagely. So I kept my counsel and said nothing. I can’t help wishing, though, to know what will become of these millions which I might have had by saying that one little word five years ago. It seems to me I should not be utterly at a loss to find some wise uses for them, and it would not be by building colleges which are not needed, or by encouraging pauperism.... CHAPTER III. (Extract from the “Boston Herald.”)