large a store of internal freshness and buoyancy, her mental powers evinced so little decadence,—Time had dealt so leniently with her face and form, she was so wonderfully bien conservée, that the inevitable necessity of "growing old," and—far worse—of looking old, had not intruded itself upon her contemplation. Yet, even by the poet's measurement of existence, which says:
In feelings, not in figures on the dial.
We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives
Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best!"
And counting her life by its events, emotions, actions, by what she had suffered, enjoyed, endured, achieved, it had not been short; for hers was not one of those empty, passive, purposeless lives that glide on from youth to age without leaving landmarks on the road, to warn or guide others who may pass that way.
"Growing old for want of somebody to tell me that I am looking as young as ever!" wrote Landor. "Looking as young as ever!" sighed Millicent; "why that was once a familiar greeting to my ears; and Landor is right, truly: its flattery was rejuvenating. But, methinks, no one has told me, of late, that I am 'looking as young as ever.' Was it a mere chance omission, or am I"———
She broke off abruptly, and stifled a half sigh,
