""Oh! my dear, my dear, how shall I pass the hours till I hold you again?"" No thought, then, of my whole life's completion and consummation being a dream. I staggered up to my room, fell across my bed, and slept heavily and dreamlessly. When I awoke it was high noon. Mildred and her mother were coming to lunch. I remembered, at one o'clock, Mildred coming and her existence. Now indeed the dream began. With a penetrating sense of the futility of any action apart from her, I gave the necessary orders for the reception of my guests. When Mildred and her mother came I received them with cordiality; but my genial phrases all seemed to be someone else's. My voice sounded like an echo; my heart was not there. Still, the situation was not intolerable, until the hour when afternoon tea was served in the drawing-room. Mildred and mother kept the conversational pot boiling with"an excerpt from the beginning: To be rich is a luxurious sensation, the more so when you have plumbed the depths of hard-up-ness as a Fleet Street hack, a picker-up of unconsidered pars, a reporter, an unappreciated journalist; all callings utterly inconsistent with one's family feeling and one's direct descent from the Dukes of Picardy.?xml: namespace prefix = o ns = "urn: schemas-microsoft-com: office: office" / When my Aunt Dorcas died and left me seven hundred a year and a furnished house in ?xml: namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn: schemas-microsoft-com: office: smarttags" /Chelsea, I felt that life had nothing left to offer except immediate possession of the legacy. Even Mildred Mayhew, whom I had hitherto regarded as my life's light, became less luminous. I was not engaged to Mildred, but I lodged with her mother, and I sang duets with Mildred and gave her gloves when it would run to it, which was seldom. She was a dear, good girl, and I meant to marry her some day. It is very nice to feel that a good little woman is thinking of you -- it helps you in your work -- and it is pleasant to know she will say "Yes," when you say, "Will you?" But my legacy almost put Mildred out of my head, especially as she was staying with friends in the country. Before the gloss was off my new mourning, I was seated in my aunt's armchair in front of the fire in the drawing-room of my own house. My own house! It was grand, but rather lonely. I did think of Mildred just then. The room was comfortably furnished with rosewood and damask. On the walls hung a few fairly good oil paintings, but the space above the mantelpiece was disfigured by an exceedingly bad print, "The Trial of Lord William Russell," framed in a dark frame. I got up to look at it. I had visited my aunt with dutiful regularity, but I never remembered seeing this frame before. It was not intended for a print, but for an oil-painting. It was of fine ebony, beautifully and curiously carved. I looked at it with growing interest, and when my aunt's housemaid -- I had retained her modest staff of servants -- came in with the lamp, I asked her how long the print had been there. "Mistress only bought it two. days before she was took ill," she said; "but the frame -- she didn't want to buy a new one -- so she got this out of the attic. There's lots of curious old things ther