She was a good-natured, amiable girl, and though usually frank and open-hearted, she would sometimes stoop to deceit, particularly if her own interests were concerned. At home she had been petted and caressed until she was a thoroughly spoiled, selfish child, exacting from others attentions and favors which she was never willing to render back. All this Oliver saw before she had been ten minutes in his presence, but he could not dislike her any more than he could have disliked a beautiful, capricious baby; and he began to understand in part why Mildred should feel so strong an attachment for her. She was naturally very familiar and affectionate, and as Mildred had resumed her seat upon the stool, she, sat down upon the floor, and laying both her soft hands on Oliver’s knee, began to talk with him as if she had known him all her life, stipulating, on the start, that he shouldn’t say a word to her of books, as she detested the whole thing. “Mildred will tell you how little I know,” she said. “She used to do my sums, translate my French, write my compositions, and some of my letters, too. Do you know Lawrence, Mr. Hawkins?” Oliver replied that he had seen him, and Lilian continued: “Isn’t he splendid? All the Boston girls are ready to pull caps over him, but he don’t care for any of them. I used to think maybe he’d fall in love with Milly; but,—Geraldine says she knows too much for a man like him really to care for; and I guess she does, for anybody can see I’m a simpleton,—and he certainly likes me the best,—don’t he, Milly? Why, how red your cheeks are,—and no wonder, it’s so hot in this pent-up room. Let’s go down,” and without waiting for an answer, Lilian tripped down the stairs, followed by Mildred and Oliver,—the latter having forgotten his headache in the pleasure of seeing his former playmate. “Now where?” asked Lilian, as they emerged into the open air. “Home, I guess,” said Mildred, and bidding Oliver good-night, they went back to Beechwood, where they found the Judge impatiently waiting for them. He wanted some music, he said, and he kept Mildred, who was a fine performer, singing and playing for him until it was long after his bed time, and Lilian began to yawn very decidedly. “She was bored almost to death,” she said, as she at last followed Mildred up the stairs. “She didn’t like Beechwood at all, thus far,—she did wish Lawrence Thornton would come out there,” and with a disagreeable expression upon her pretty face, she nestled down among her pillows, while Mildred, who was slower in her movements, still lingered before the mirror, brushing her rich brown hair. Suddenly Lilian started up, exclaiming: “I’ve got it, Milly, I’ve got it.”