.ALL ft I
Synopaia of Prevloua Chapters.
CHAPTERS I and ll—The new tenants of
three adjoining villus in the London suburbs
are Adtuißul Huy Denver, with a son Ilaroll;
I)r. Walker, with two motherless daug-hters,
Clara and Ida, and Mrs. Westinaeott and her
nephew Charles. Mrs. Westinaeott is one of
the muscular, emancipated sisterhood, with
radical views and manners.
CHAPTER 111-There is a common tennis
for the villas, and the neighbors quickly
get acquainted. Young Denver is attentive to
Ida Walker and Charles Westmacott to Clara.
The doctor is fascinated by the brilliant Mrs.
Westmacott and lends his name to advance tho
cause of woman 1 * rights.
CHAPTER IV.
A SISTER'S SECRET.
"Tell me, Miss Walker. You know
how things should be. What would you
say was a good profession for a yodng
man of 20 who has had no education
worth speaking about and who is not
very quick by nature?" Tho speaker
was Charles Westmacott, and tho time
this same summer evening in the tennis
ground, though the shadows had fallen
now and tho game been abandoned.
The girl glanced up at him, amused
and surprised.
"Do you mean yourself?"
"Precisely."
"But how could I tell?'
"I havo no one to advise me. Ibeliovo
that yon could do it better than any one.
I feel confidence in your opinion."
"It is very flattering." She glanced
up again at his earnest, questioning face,
with its Saxon eyes and drooping flaxen
mustache, in some doubt, as to whether
she might be joking. On the contrary,
Nil his attention seemed to bo concen
trated upon her answer.
"It depends so much upon what you
can do, you know. I do not know you
sufficiently to be able to say what nat
ural gifts you have." They wero walk
ing slowly across the lawn in the direc
tion of the house.
"I have none—that is to say, none
Worth mentioning. I have no memory,
and I am very slow."
"But you are very strong?"
"Oh, if that goes for anytliing. I can
put up a hundred-pound bar till further
orders, but what sort of a calling is that?"
Some little joke about being called to
the bar flickered up in Miss Walker's
mind, but her companion was in such
obvious earnest that she stifled down her
inclination to laugh.
V'f can do a mile on the cinder track in
and across country in 5:20, but how
is that to help me? I might bo a cricket
professional, but it is not a very dignified
position. Not that I care a straw about
dignity, you know, but I should not liko
to hurt tho old lady's feelings."
"Your aunt's?"
"Yes, my aunt's. My parents wero
killed in the mutiny, you know, when 1
was a baby, and she has looked after mo
ever since. She has been very good to
me. I'm sorry to leave her."
"But why should you leavo her?"
They had reached the garden gate, and
tho girl leaned her racket upon tho top
of it, looking up with grave interest at
her big, white flauneled companion,
"It's Browning," said he,
"What!"
"Don't tell my aunt that I said it"—he
sank his voico to a whisper—"l hate
Browning."
Clara Walkcr rippled off into such a
nnygy peal of laughter that he forgot
tho evil things which he had suffered
from tho poet and burst out laughing
too.
"I can't make him out," said he. "1
try, but he is one too many. No doubt
it is very stupid of me. I don't deny it.
But as long as I cannot there is no use
pretending that I can. And then pf
course she feels hurt, for she is very fond
of him and likes to reud him aloud in
tho evenings. She is reading a piece
now, 'Pippa Passes,' and I assure you,
Miss Walker, that I don't even know
what the title means. You must think
me a dreadful fool."
"But surely ho is not so incomprehen
sible as nil that?" sho said as an attempt
at encouragement.
"He is very bad. There are some
things you know which are fine. That
ride of the threo Dutchmen, and Tlerve
Riel' and others, they are all right. But
there was a piece we read last week.
The first lino stumped my aunt, and it
takes a good deal to do that, for she rides
very straight. 'Setebos and Setebos and
Betebos.' That was the line."
"il'sounds liko a charm,"
"No, it is a gentleman's name. Three
gentlemen, I thought at first, but my
aunt says one. Then he goes on, 'Think
eth he dwelleth in the light of tho moon.'
It was a very trying piece."
Clara Walker laughed again.
"You must not think of leaving your
aunt," she said. "Think how lonely she
would be without you."
" Well, yes , I had thought ofthat. But
you must remember that my aunt is to
all intents hardly middle aged and u
very eligible person. I don't,think that
her dislike to mankind extends to indi
viduals. She might form new ties, and
i then I Bhould be a third wheel in tho
coach. It was all very well as long as I
was only a boy, when her first husbuud
Was alive."
"But, good gracious, you don't mean
that Mrs. Westmacott is going to marry
again?" gasped Clara.
T'.'cyoung man glanced down at her
with X question in his eyes. "Oh, it is
only'd remote possibility, you know,"
said he. "Still, of course, it might hap
pen, and I should like to know what I
bUgllt to turn mv hand to."
"I wish I could help you," said Clara.
"But I really know very littlo about
such things. However, I could talk to
my father, who knows a very great deal
of the world."
"I wish you would. I should be so glad
if you would."
"Then I certainly will. And now I
must say good night, Mr. Westinaeott,
for papa will be wondering where I am."
"Goodnight, Miss Walker." He pulled
off his flannel cap and stalked away
through the gathering darkness.
Clara had imagined that they had been
the last on the lawn, but looking back
! from the steps which led up to the
French windows she saw two dark iig
j ures moving across toward the house.
' As they camo nearer she could distin
guish that they wero Harold Denver and
her sister Ida. The murmur of their
voices rose up to her ears, and then the
musical littlo childlike laugh which she
knew so well. "I am so delighted," she
heard her sister say. "So pleased and
proud. I had no idea of it. Your words
wero such a surprise and a joy to me.
Oh, I am so gladl"
"Is that you, Ida?"
"Oh, tliero is Clara. I must go in, Mr.
Denver. Good night!"
There wero a few whispered words, a
laugh from Ida ami a "Good night, Miss
Walker" out of the darkness. Clara
took her sister's hand, and they paßsed
together through the long, folding win
dow. Tho doctor had gone into his
study, and tho dining room was empty.
A single small red lamp upon the side
board was reflected tenfold by the plate
about it and the mahogany beneath it,
though its single wick cast but a feeble
light into the large, dimly shadowed
room. Ida danced off to the big central
lamp, but Clara put her hand upon her
arm. ''l rather like this quiet light," said
she. "Why should we not have achat?"
Sho sat in tho doctor's large red plush
chair, and her sister cuddled down upon
the footstool at her feet, glancing up at
her elder with a smilo upon her lips and
a mischievous gleam in her eyes. Tliero
wns a shade of anxiety in Clara's face,
which cleared away as she gazed into her
sister's frank blue eyes.
"Have you anything to tell me, dear?'
sho askcih
•:' J
"Have you anything to tell mc, dcart"
Ida gave a little pout and shrug to her
shoulders. "The solicitor general then
opened the case for the prosecution," said
she. "You are going to cross examine
me, Clara, so don't deny it. I do wish
you would have that gray satin foulard
of yours done up. With a little trim
ming and a new white vest it would
look as good as new, und it is really very
dowdy."
"Yon were quite late upon the lawn,"
said the inexorable Clara.
"Yes I was, rather. So wero you.
Have you anything to tell me?" She
broke away into her merry, musical
laugh.
"1 was chatting with Mr. Westma
cott."
"And I was chatting with Mr. Denver.
By tho way, Clara, now tell me .truly,
what do you think of Mr. Denver? Do
you like him? Honestly now I"
"I like him very much indeed. I think
that he is one of the most gentlemanly,
modest, manly young men that I havo
ever known. So now, dear, have you
nothing to tell me?" Clara smoothed
down her sister's golden hair with a
motherly gesture and stooped her face to
catch tho expected confidence. She could
wish nothing better than that Ida should
Ite tho wife of Harold Denver, and from
the words which she had overheard as
they left the lawn that evening she could
not doubt that there was some under
standing between them.
But there camo no confession from
Ida, only the same mischievous smile
and amused gleam in her deep blue eyes.
"That gray foulard dress"—she began.
"Oh, you little teasel Come now, I
will ask you what you have just asked
me. Do you like Harold Denver?"
"Oh, he's a darling!"
"Ida!"
"Well, you asked me. That's what I
think of him. And now, you dear old
Inquisitive, you will get nothing more
out of mo, so you must just wait and
not be too curious. I'm going off to see
what papa is doing." She sprang to her
feet, threw her arms round her sister's
neck, gave her a final squeeze and was
gone. A chorus from "Olivette," sung
in her clear contralto, grew fainter and
fainter until it ended in the slam of a
distant door.
But Clara Walker still sat in the dim
lit room with her' chin upon her hands
and her dreamy eyes looking out into
the gathering gloom. It was the duty
FREELAND TRIBUNE, MONDAY, MAY 29, 1893.
of her, a maiden, to play tlie part of a
mother—to guide another in paths which
hor own steps had not yet trodden. Since
her mother died not a thought had hcen
given to herself; all was for her father
and her sister.
In her own eyes sho was herself very
plain, and sho knew that her manner
was often ungracious when she would
mojt wish to be gracious. Sho saw her
face as the glass reflected it, but she did
not see the changing play of expression
which gave it its charm—the infinite
pity, the sympathy, tho sweet woman
liness which drew toward her all who
wero in doubt and in trouble, even as
poor, slow moving Charles Westmacott
had been drawn to her that night. She
was herself, sho thought, outside the
palo of love. But it was very different
with Ida, merry, little, quick witted,
bright faced Ida. She was born for love.
It was her inheritance. But she was
young and innocent. She must not be
allowed to venture too fur without help
in those dangerous waters.
Some understanding there was between
her and Harold Denver. In her heart of
hearts Clara, like every good woman,
was a matchmaker, and already she had
chosen Denver of all men as the one to
whom she could most safely confide Ida.
He had talked to her more than once on
the serious topics of life, on his aspira
tions, on what a man could do to leave
the world better for his presence. She
knew that ho was a man of a noble na
ture, high minded and earnest. And yet
she did not like this secrecy, this disin
clination upon the part of one so frank
and honest as Ida to tell her what was
passing. She would wait, and if she got
the opportunity next day she would lead
Harold Denver himself on to this topic.
It was possible that she might learn
from him what her sister had refused to
tell her.
CHAPTER V.
A NAVAL CONQUEST.
It was tho habit of the doctor and tho
admiral to accompany each other upon a
morning ramble between breakfast and
lunch. The dwellers in those quiet tree
lined roads were accustomed to see the
two figures—the long, thin, austere sea
man and the short, bustling, tweed clad
physician—pass and repass with such
regularity that a stopped clock has been
react by them. The admiral took two
steps to his companion's three, but tho
younger man was the quicker, and both
were equal to a good 4 J miles an hour.
It was a lovely summer day which fol
lowed the events which have, been de
scribed. The sky was of the deepest
blue, with a few white fleecy clouds
drifting lazily across it, and tho air was
filled with the low drone of insects or
with a sudden sharper note as bee or
blue fly shot past with its quivering long
drawn hum, like an insect tuning fork.
As the friends topped each riso which
leads up to tho Crystal palaco they
could see the dun clouds of London
stretching along tho northern sky lino,
with spire or dome breaking through tho
low lying haze. The admiral was in high
spirits, for the morning post had brought
good news of his son.
"It is wonderful, Walker," ho was say
ing, "positively wonderful, the way that
boy of mine has gone ahead during tho
last three years. Wo heard from Pear
son today. Pearson is tho senior part
ner, you know, and my boy the junior-
Pearson & Denver tho firm. Cunning
old dog is Pearson, as cute and as greedy
as a Rio shark. Yet ho goes off for a
fortnight's leave and puts my boy in full
charge, with all that immense business
in his hands, and a free hand to do what
he likes with it. ll&w's that for confi
dence, and he only three years upon
'change?"
"Any one would confide in him. His
face is a surety," said tho doctor.
"Go on, Walker." Tho admiral dug
his elbow at him. "You know my weak
side. Still it's truth all the same. I'vo
been blessed with a good wife and a good
son, and maybe I relish thein Uio more
for having beon cut off from them so
long. I have much to be thankful for."
"And so have I. The best two girls
that ever stepped. There's Clara, who
has learned as much medicine as would
give her the L. S. A., simply in order
that she may sympathize with me in my
work But, hullo, what is this coming
along?"
"All drawing and the wind astern!"
cried the admiral. "Fourteen knots if
it's one. Why, by George, it is that
woman!"
A rolling cloud of yellow dust had
streamed round the curve of the road,
and from the heart of it had emerged a
high tandem tricycle flying along at a
breakneck pace. In front sat Mr s. West
macott clad in a heather tweed pea jacket,
a skirt which just passed her knees and
a pair of thick gaiters of tho sumo ma
terial. She had a great bundle of red
papers under her arm, while Charles,
who sat behind her clad in Norfolk
jacket and knickerbockers, bore a simi
lar role protruding from either pocket-
Even as they watched, tho pair eased up,
tho lady sprang off, impaled one of her
bills upon the garden railing of an empty
house, and then jumping on to her seat
again was about to hurry onward when
her nephew called her attention to the
fwo gentlemen upon tho footpath.
"Oh, now, really I didn't notice you,"
said she, taking a few turns of the treadlo
and steering the machine across to them.
"Is it not a beautiful morning?"
"Lovely," answered thq doctor. "You
seem to be very busy."
"I am very busy." She pointed to the
colored paper which still fluttered from |
tho railing. "Wehave been pushing our
propaganda, you see. Charles and I have
been at it since 7 o'clock. It is about
our meeting. I wish it to bo a great suc
cess." Seel" She smoothed out one of
tho bills, and the doctor read his own
name in great black letters across the
bottom.
"We don't forget our chairman, you
see. Everybody is coming. Thoso two
dear little old maids opposite, tho Wil
liamses, held out some time, but 1 have
their promise now. Admiral, lam sure
that you wish us well."
"Hum! I wish you no harm, ma'am."
"You will come on tho platform?"
"I'll bo —. • No, I don't think 1 can do
that."
"To our meeting, then?"
I "No, ma'am. I dflh't go out after din
ner."
"Oh, yes, you will come. I will call
I in if 1 may and chat it over with you
; when you como homo. We havo not
breakfasted yet. Goodbyl" There was
a whir of wheels, and the yellow cloud
j rolled away down the road again. By
| somo legerdemain the admiral found that
ho wns clutching in his right hand one
of the obnoxious bills. He crumpled it
' up and threw it into the roadway.
I "I'll bo hanged if I go, Walker," said
j he as he resumed his walk. "I've never
been hustled into doing a thing yet,
| whether by woman or man."
j "I'm not a betting man,"answered tho
j doctor, "but I rather think that theodds
are in favor of your going."
j Tho admiral had hardly got home and
had just seated himself in his dining
j room when tho attack upon him was re
| newed. Ho was slowly and lovingly un
folding Tho Times preparatory to tho
long read which led up to luncheon, and
had even got so far as to fasten his gold
| en pince-nez on to hip thin, high bridged
nose, when ho heard a scrunching of
gravel, and looking over the top of his
paper saw Mrs. Westmacott coming up
the garden walk. Sho was still dressed
in tho singular costume which offended
tho sailor's old fashioned notions of pro
priety, but he could not deny as ho
looked at her thift sho was a very fine
woman. In many climes he had looked
upon women of all shades and ages,
[ but never upon a more clear cut, hand
some face, nor a more erect, supple
and womanly figure. He ceased to
glower as he gazed upon her, and the
frown was smoothed away from his
rugged brow.
"May 1 come in?" said she, framing
herself in the open window, with a back
ground of greensward and blue sky. "1
feel like an invader deep in an enemy's
country."
"It is a very welcome invasion, ma'am,"
said he, clearing his throat and pulling at
his collar. "Try this garden chair. What
is there that I can do for you? Shall I
ring and lot Mrs. Denver know that you
are here?"
"Pray do nottrouble, admiral. I only
looked in with reference to our little chat
this morning. I wish that you would
give us your powerful support at our
coming meeting for the improvement of
tho condition of woman."
"No, ma'am. I can't do that." Ho
pursed up his lips and shook his grizzled
head.
"And why not?"
"Against my principles, ma'am."
"But why?"
"Because woman has her duties, and
man has his. I may bo old fashioned,
but that is my view. Why, what is tho
world coming to? I was saying to Dr.
Walker only last night that we shall
have a woman wanting to command the
Channel fleet next."
"That is one of the few professions
which cannot be improved," said Mrs.
Westmacott, with her sweetest smilo.
"Poor woman must still look to man for
protection."
"I don't like those new fangled ideas,
ma'am. I tell you honestly that I don't.
I liko discipline, ami I think every ono is
the better for it. Women havo got a
great deal which they had not in the
days of our fathers. They have univer
sities all for themselves, I ani told, and
there are women doctors, I hear. Surely
they should rest contented. What more
can they want?"
"You are a sailor, and sailors are al- I
ways chivalrous. If you could see how
things really, aro you would change your
opinion. What are the poor things to
do? There are so many of them and so
few things to which they can turn their
hands. Governesses? But there are
hardly any situations. Music and draw
ing? There is not one in fifty who has
any special talent in that direction. Med
icine? It is still surrounded with dilfi
culties for women, and it takes many
years and a small fortune to qualify.
Nursing? It is hard work ill paid, and
none but the strongest can stand it.
What would yon have them do then,
admiral? Bit down and starve?"
"Tut, tut! It is not so bad as that." |
"The pressure is terrible. Advertise
for a lady companion at 10 shillings j
week, which is less than a cook's wage, I
and seo how many answers you get.
There is no hope, no outlook, for these j
struggling thousands. Life is a dull,
sordid struggle, leading down to a cheor- I
less old ago. Yet when wo try to bring
some little ray of hope, some chance, I
however distant, of something better j
we aro told by chivalrous gentlemen that I
it is against their principles to help."
Tho admiral moved uneasily in Ins
chair. "Yours is an exceptional caso," j
said he.
"But no woman has a voice. Consider
that tho women aro a majority in the na
tion. Yet if there was a question of leg
islation upon which all the women were
agreed upon one sido and all tho men j
upon tho other, it would appear that tho
mutter was settled unanimously when
more than half tho population were op
posed to it. Is that right?"
Again tho admiral wriggled. It was
very awkward for tho gallant seaman to
have a handsome woman opposite to
him bombarding him with questions to
none of which ho could find an answer.
"Couldn't even get tho tompions out of
his guns," as he explained the matter to
the doctor that evening.
"Now, those aro really the points that
wo shall lay stress upon at tho meeting.
Tho free and complete opening of the pro
fessions, the final abolition of the zenana,
I call it, and tho franchise to all women
who pay queen's taxes above a certain
sum. Snrcly there is nothing unreason
able in that—nothing which could offend
your principles. We shall havo medi
cine, law and tho church, all rallying
that night for the protection of woman.
Is tho navy to bo tho ono profession ab
sent?"
Tho admiral jumped out of his chair
with an evil word in his throat. "There,
there, ma'am," ho cried. "Drop it for a
time. I have heard enough. Yon'vo
turned me a point or two. I won't deny
ft. But let it stand at that. 1 will thinK
it over."
"But, hullo, what Is this coming alowj?"
"Certainly, admiral. We would not
hurry you in your decision. But we still
hope to see you on our platform." She
rose and moved about in her lounging
masculine fashion from one picture to
j another, for the walls were thickly cov
ered with reminiscences of the admiral's
voyages.
"Hull:)!" said she. "Surely this ship
would have furled all her lower canvas
and reefed her topsails if she found her
self on a lee shore with the wind 011 her
quarter."
"Of course she would. The artist was
never past Gravesend, I swear. It's the
Penelope as she was on the 14th of June,
1857, in tho throat of the straits of Ban
ca, with the island of Banca 011 tho star
board bow and Sumatra on the port. He
painted from description, but of course,
as you very sensibly say, all was snug
below, and sho carried stormsails and
double reefed topsails, for it was blow
ing a cyclone from the sou'east. I com
pliment yon, ma'am, I do indeed!"
"Oil, I have done a little sailoring my
self—as much as a woman can aspire to,
you know. This is tho hay of Funchal.
What a lovely frigate!"
"Lovely, you say! Ah, she was lovely!
That is the Andromeda. I was a mate
aboard of her—sublieutenant tlusy call
it now, though I like the oldnamts'best."
"What a lovely rake her masts have,
and what a curve to her bows! She
must have been a clipper."
The old sailor rubbed his hands, and
his eyes glistened. His old ships bor
dered close upon his wife and his son in
his affection.
"I know Funchal," said the lady care
lessly. "A couple of years ago I had a.
7-ton cutter rigged yacht, tho Banshee,
and we ran over to Madeira from Fal
mouth."
"You, ma'am, in a 7-tonner?"
"With a couple of Cornish lads for a
crew. Oh, it was glorious! A fortnight
right out in the open, with no worries,
no letters, no callers, no petty thoughts,
nothing but the grand works of God, the
tossing sea and the great silent sky.
They talk of riding—indeed I am fond of
horses, too —but what is there to com
pare with tho swoop of a little craft as
rfie pitches down the long, steep side of
a wave, and theil the quiver and spring
as sho is tossed upward again? Oh, if
our souls could transmigrate I'd be a
seamew above all birds that fly! But I
keep you, admiral. Adieu!"
"You may put 1110 down for the plat
form," he cried and vanished abashed
behind the curtain of his Times, where
his wife found him at lunchtime.
"I hear that you havo had quite a long
chat with Mrs. Westmacott,"said she.
"Yes, and I think that Bho is one of
the most sensiblo women that I ever
knew."
"Except on the woman's rights ques
tion, of course." *
"Oh, I don't know. Sho has a good
deal to say for herself on that also. In
fact, mother, I have taken a platform
ticket for her meeting."
CHAPTER VI.
AN OLD STORY.
But this was not to be the only event
ful conversation which Mrs. Westmacott
held that day, nor was the admiral the
only person in The Wilderness who was
destined to find his opinions considerably
changed. Two neighboring families, the
Winslows from Anerley and the Cum
berbatches from Gypsy Hill, had been
invited to tennis by Mrs. Westmacott,
and the lawn was gay in the evening
with the blazers of tho young men and
tho bright dresses of the girls. To tho
older people sitting round in their wicker
work garden chairs tho darting, stoop
ing, springing white figures, the sweep I
of skirts and twinkle of canvas shoes,
the click of the rackets and sharp whiz
of the balls, with the continual "fifteen j
love, fifteen all!" of the marker, made up
a merry and exhilarating scene. To see
their sons and daughters so flushed and
healthy and happy gavo them also a re
flected glow, and it was hard to say who ]
had most pleasure from tho game, those
who played or those who watched.
Mrs. Westmacott had just finished a
set when she caught a glimpso of Clara
Walker sitting alone at the farther end
of the ground. She ran down the court,
cleared the net to the amazement of tho
visitors and seated herself beside her.
Clara's reserved and refined naturo
shrank somewhat from tho boisterous
frankness and strange manners of tho
widow, and. yet her feminine instinct
told her that beneath all her peculiari- '
ties there lay much that was good and
noble. She smiled up at her, therefore,
and nodded a greeting.
"Why aren't you playing then? Don't,
for goodness' sake, begin to bo languid
and young ladyishl When you give up
active sports, you give up youth."
"1 have played a set, Mrs. Westma
cott."
"That's right, my dear." Sho tapped
her upon tho arm with her tennis racket.
"I liko you, my dear, and I am going to
call you Clara. You are not as aggres
sive as I should wish, Clara, but still 1
like you very much. Self sacrifice is
all very well, you know, but we havo
had rather too much or it on our Blue
and should like to see a little on the
other. What do you think of my nephew
Charles?"
The question was so sudden and unex
pected that Clara gave quite a jump in
her chair. "I—l—l hardly ever have
thought of your nephew Charles."
"No? Oh, you must think him well
over, for I.want to speak to you about
Ijim."
"To me? But why?"
"It seemed to me most delicate. You
see, Clara, tho matter stands in this way.
It is quite possible that I may soon find
myself in a completely new sphere of
life, which will involve fresh duties and
make it impossible for me to keeji up a
household which Charles can share."
Clara stared. Did this mean that she
was about to marry again? What else
could it point to?
"Therefore Charles must havea house
hold of his own. That is obvious. Now,
I don't approve of bachelor establish
ments. Do you?"
"Really, Mrs. Westmacott, 1 have
nover thought of tho matter."
"Oh, you little sly puss! Was there
ever a girl who never thought of the
matter? 1 think that a young man of
six and twenty ought to bo married."
Clara felt very uncomfortable. The
awful thought had come upon her that
this embassadress had coino to her us a
proxy with a proposal of marriage. But
how could that be? She had not spoken
| more than three or four times with her
j nephew and knew nothing more of him
| than ho had told her on the evening be
| fore. It was impossible then. And yet
I what could his aunt mean by this dis
j cussion of his privato affairs?
I "Do you not think yourself," she per
j sisted, "that a young man of six and
j twenty is better married?"
I "1 should think that ho is old enough
I to decide for himself."
J "Yea, yes. He has done so. But
Charles is just a little shy, just a little
j slow in expressing himself. I thought
! that I would pave the way for him. Two
I women can arrange these things so much
better. Men sometimes have a difficulty
in making themselves clear."
"I really hardly follow you, Mrs. West
macott," cried Clara in despair.
"He has no profession, but he has nice
tastes. He reads Browning every night.
And he is most amazingly strong. When
he was younger, we used to put on the
gloves together, but I cannot persuade
him to now, for ho says he cannot play
light enough. I should allow him £SOO,
which should be enough at first."
"My dear Mrs. Westmacott," cried
Clara, "I assure you that I have not the
least idea what it is that you are talk
ing of."
"Do you think your sister Ida would
have my nephew Charles?"
Her sister Ida! Quite a little thrill of
relief and of pleasure ran through her at
the thought. Ida and Charles Westma
cott! She had never thought of it. And
, yet they bad been a good deal together.
They had played tennis. They had
! shared tho tandem tricycle. Again came
I tho thrill of joy, and close at its heels
j the cold questionings of conscience.
Why this joy? What was tho real source
of it? Was it that deep down, some
where pushed back in the black recesses
of tho soul, there was tho thought lurk
ing that if Charles prospered in his woo
ing then Harold Denver would still be
free? How mean, how unmaidenly, how
unsisterly the thought! Sho crushed it
down and thrust it aside, but still it
would push tip its wicked little head.
She crimsoned with shame at her own
baseness as she turned once more to her
companion.
"I really do not know," she said.
"She is not engaged?"
"Not that I know of."
"You speak hesitatingly."
"Because lam not sure. But he may
ask. Sho cannot but be flattered."
"Quite so. I tell him that it is the
most practical compliment which a man
can pay to a woman. He is a little shy,
but when he sets himself to do it he will
do it. He is very much in love with her,
I assure you. These little lively people
always do attract the slow and heavy
ones, which is nature's device for the
neutralizing of bores. But they are all
going I think if you will allow me
that I will just take the opportunity to
tell him that, as far as you know, there
is no positive obstacle in the way."
"As far as I know," Clara repeated as
the widow moved away to where the
players were grouped round tho net or
sauntering slowly toward tho house.
She rose to follow her, but her head was
in a whirl with new thoughts, and she
sat down again. Which would bo best
for Ida—Harold or Charles? Sho thought
it over with as much solicitude as a
mother who plans for her only child.
Harold had seemed to her to be in many
ways the noblest and best young man
whom she had known. If over she was
to love a man, it would bo such a man as
that. But sho must not think of herself.
She had reason to believe that both of j
these men loved her sister. Which would j
be the best for her? But perhaps the j
matter was already decided. Sho could
not forget the scrap of conversation
which sho had heard the night before, j
nor the secret which her sister had re
fused to confide to her. If Ida would J
not tell her, there was but one pespon \
who could. She raised her eyes, and j
there was Harold Denver standing be- j
fore her.
"You were lost in your thoughts," said
he, smiling. "I hope that they were
pleasant ones."
"Oh, I was planning," said she, rising.
"It seems rather a waste of time, as a
rule, for things have away of working 1
themselves out just as you least expect."
"What were you planning, then?"
"Tho future."
"Whose?"
"Oh, my own and Ida's."
"And was I included in your joint fu
tures?" .
"I hope all our friends wero included,"
"Don't go in," said he as sho began to
move slowly toward the house. "1
want to have a word. Let us stroll up
and down the lawn. Perhaps you are
cold. If you arc, I could bring you out I
a shawl."
"Oh. no. lam not cold."
11
| "I was speakiiig to your sister Ida last
| night." She noticed that there was a
slight quiver in his voice, and glancing
up at his dark, clear cut face she saw
that he was very grave. She felt that it
was settled—that he had corno to ask
her for her sister's hand.
"She is a charming girl," said he after
a pause.
"Indeed she is," cried Clara warmly.
"And no one who has not lived with her
and known her intimately can tell how
charming anil good she is. She is like a
sunbeam in the house."
"No one who was not good could be
absolutely happy, as she seems to be.
Heaven's last gift, I think, is a mind so
pure and a spirit so high that it issu
able even to see what is impure and evil
in the world around us. For as long as
we can see it, how can we be truly hap
py?"
"She has a deeper side also. She does
not turn it to the world, and it is not
natural that she should, for she is very
young. But she thinks and has aspira
tions of her own."
"You cannot admire her more than I
do. Indeed, Miss Walker, I only ask to
be brought into near relationship with
her and to feel that there is a permanent
bond between us."
It had come at last. For a moment
| her heart was numbed within her, and
j then a flood of sisterly love carried all
before it. Down with that dark thought
which would still try to raise its unhal
lowed head! She turned to Harold with
sparkling eyes and words of pleasure
upon her lips.
"I should wish to be near and dear to
both of you," said he as he took her
hand. "I should wish Ida to be my sis
ter and you my wife."
She said nothing. She only stood
looking at him with parted lips and great,
dark, questioning eyes. The lawn had
vanished away, the sloping gardens, the
brick villas, the darkening sky, with half
a pale moon beginning to show over the
chimney pots. All was gone, and she
was only conscious of a dark earnest
pleading face, and of a voice far away,
disconnected from herself, the voice of a
man telling a woman how he loved her.
Ho was unhappy, said the voice, his life
was a void; thero was but ono thing that
could save him; he had come to the part
ing of the ways; liere lay happiness and
honor and all that was high and noble;
there lay the soul killing round, the
lonely life, the base pursuit of money,
the sordid, selfish aims. He needed but
the hand of the woman that he loved to
lead him into the better path.
And how he loved her his life would
show. Ho loved her for her sweetness,
for her womanliness, for her strength.
Ho had need of her. Would she not
come to him? And then of a sudden as
sho listened it came home to her that the
man was Harold Denver, and that she
was the woman, and that all God's work
was very beautiful—the greensward be
neath her feet, the rustling leaves, the
long orange slashes in the western sky.
Sho spoko. Sho scarco knew what the
broken words were, but she saw the
light of joy shine out on his face, and
her hand was still in his as they wan
dered amid the twilight. - They said no
more now, but only wandered and felt
each other's presence. All was fresh
around them, familiar and yet new,
tinged with the beauty of their own new
found happiness.
"Did you not know it before?" he
asked.
"I did not dare to think it."
"What a mask of ice I must wearl
How could a man feel as I have done
without showing it? Your sister at least
knew."
"Ida!"
"It was last night. Sho began to
praise you, I said what I felt, and then
in an instant it was all out."
"But what could you—what could
you see in me? Oh, Ido pray that you
may not repent it!" The gentle heart
was ruffled amid its joy by the thought
of its own unworthiness.
"Repent it. I feel that lam a saved
man. You do not know how degrading
this city life is, how debasing, and yet
how absorbing. Money forever clinks
in your ear. You can think of nothing
elso. From the bottom of my heart I
hate it, and yet how can I draw back
without bringing grief to my dear old
father? There was but ono way in which
I could defy the taint, and that was by
having a home influence so pure and so
high that it may brace me up against all
that draws mo down. I have felt that
influence already. I know that when I
am talking to you I am a better man. It
is you who must go with me through
life, or I must walk forover alone."
"Oh, Harold, I am so happy!" Still
they wandered amid the darkening shad
ows, while one by one the stars peeped
out in the blue-black sky above them.
At last a chill night wind blew up from
the east and brought them back to tho
realities of life.
"You must go in. l'ou win De coiu.
"My father will wonder where I am.
Shall I say anything to him?"
"If you like, my darling. Or I will in
the morning. I must tell my mother to
night. I know how delighted she will
be."
"I do hope so."
"Let me take yon up the garden path.
It is so dark. Your lamp is not lit yet.
There is the window. Till tomorrow,
then, dearest."
"Till tomorrow, Harold."
"My own darling!" Ho stooped, and
their lips met for tho first time. Then
as sho pushed open the folding windows
sho heard his quick firm stop as it passed
down tho graveled path. A lamp was lit
as she entered tho room, and there was
Ida, dancing about like a mischievous
little fairy, in front of her.
"And have you anything to tell me?"
site asked, with a solemn face. Then sud
denly throwing her arms round her sis
ter's neck: "Oh, you dear, dear old Clara!
lam so pleased. lam so pleased."
[CONTINUED OK TIII'RSDA Y. ]
Charles Wilson took rat poison and
killed himself on account of a disappoint
ment in love. That was an awfully ratty
way of dying, Charles, especially for love.