Dora had a discreet friend, comparatively stricken in years, almost of
the ripe age of twenty, I should say, whose name was Miss Mills. Dora
called her Julia. She was the bosom friend of Dora. Happy Miss Mills!
One day Miss Mills said: "Dora is coming to stay with me. She is coming
the day after to-morrow. If you would like to call, I am sure papa would
be happy to see you."
I passed three days in a luxury of wretchedness. At last, arrayed for
the purpose, at a vast expense, I went to Miss Mills's, fraught with a
declaration. Mr. Mills was not at home. I didn't expect he would be.
Nobody wanted him. Miss Mills was at home. Miss Mills would do.
I was shown into a room upstairs, where Miss Mills and Dora were. Dora's
little dog Jip was there. Miss Mills was copying music, and Dora was
painting flowers. What were my feelings when I recognized flowers I had
given her!
Miss Mills was very glad to see me, and very sorry her papa was not at
home, though I thought we all bore that with fortitude. Miss Mills was
conversational for a few minutes, and then laying down her pen, got up
and left the room.
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