“Oh, mercy, yes!” retorted that matter-of-fact young woman, in great astonishment, “I am often! There are so many nice things in the world, Margaret, and when one has money--” Miss English drew a long breath; it expressed her thought. Margaret smiled bitterly. “Is that the sum total, Gerty? Is there nothing else?” “Oh, yes, of course, but not to have to pinch and work and reason, just to be vulgarly downright rich once! I shouldn’t ask much else,” said Gerty ecstatically. “You have no imagination, Gerty,” Margaret replied, “that’s been my curse, I’ve imagined myself into a fool’s paradise! As for money--I’ve had it all my life, it never gave me anything I wanted.” “Oh, Margaret!” Miss English almost sobbed, “think of all you’ve had, of all you’ve got, of all you’re going to have!” she added incoherently. “Of all I’m going to have?” Margaret repeated, with a strange smile; “my dear Gerty, the prospect is certainly blinding. Thank you!” Gerty stared. She did not understand, and she dared not press the question; she could not but perceive the cold agony in Margaret’s eye. Their walk had brought them to a little triangle between the streets, and as they crossed above it, a child’s voice cried out after them with a shrill little note of joy. “Oh, mamma, there’s mamma!” Gerty felt the hand on her arm tighten, and the shiver which ran through the figure at her side was almost as perceptible. They both turned and looking across the grass-plot saw two French nurses, a child in a carriage and Estelle running toward them, her small face flushing with eagerness, her pale hair streaming in the breeze. She came swiftly, reached them and, with the first unchecked impulse of her life, flung her arms around her mother. “Mamma, mamma!” she cried, “I’ve wanted you so much!” Margaret looked at her strangely for a moment, then her lips twitched and tears came into her eyes, as she stooped down and clasped the child close. For the first time the instinct of maternity spoke; she had seen, too, a strange vague likeness to herself in the small, upturned face, one of those fleeting glimpses that come in a look. “Did you really want me, Estelle?” she asked gently, submitting to the child’s wild joy with a new surprised tenderness. “Oh, mamma, you’re coming home?” Estelle sobbed, clinging to her; “you’re coming back to us? Oh, where have you been, mamma?” Margaret kissed her and rose, putting her off a little; she saw that people were looking at them, and a slow dull flush rose to her forehead. “Yes, I’m coming,” she said with an effort; “I’ll--I’ll come to-morrow, Estelle, and ask Grandmother White to let me take you for a while. You must be good, child; don’t cry, mamma can’t bear it!” “Come now, mamma!” Estelle wailed, holding her dress with desperate fingers and calling to her little brother who still clung to his nurse, staring as if he saw a stranger.