The Duchess of Snowdon, once beautiful, but now with a face like a mask, enamelled and rouged and lifeless, had said to her once: "My dear, I ought to have died at thirty.

When I was twenty-three I wanted to squeeze the orange dry in a handful of years, and then go out suddenly, and let the dust of forgetfulness cover my bones.

I had one child, a boy, and would have no more; and I squeezed the orange! But I didn't go at thirty, and yet the orange was dry.

My boy died; and you see what I am--a fright, I know it; and I dress like a child of twenty; and I can't help it." There had been moments, once, when Hylda, too, had wished to squeeze the orange dry, but something behind, calling to her, had held her back.

She had dropped her anchor in perilous seas, but it had never dragged.
"Tell me how to make friends--and keep them," she added gaily.
"If it be true I make friends, thee taught me how," he answered, "for thee made me a friend, and I forget not the lesson." She smiled.