But this was not to be the only eventful conversationwhich Mrs. Westmacott held that day, nor was the Admiralthe only person in the Wilderness who was destined tofind his opinions considerably changed. Two neighboringfamilies, the Winslows from Anerley, and theCumberbatches from Gipsy Hill, had been invited to tennisby Mrs. Westmacott, and the lawn was gay in the eveningwith the blazers of the young men and the bright dressesof the girls. To the older people, sitting round intheir wicker-work garden chairs, the darting, stooping,springing white figures, the sweep of skirts, and twinkleof canvas shoes, the click of the rackets and sharp whizof the balls, with the continual "fifteen love--fifteenall!" of the marker, made up a merry and exhilaratingscene. To see their sons and daughters so flushed andhealthy and happy, gave them also a reflected glow,and it was hard to say who had most pleasure from thegame, those who played or those who watched.

Mrs. Westmacott had just finished a set when shecaught a glimpse of Clara Walker sitting alone at thefarther end of the ground. She ran down the court,cleared the net to the amazement of the visitors, andseated herself beside her. Clara's reserved and refinednature shrank somewhat from the boisterous frankness andstrange manners of the widow, and yet her feminineinstinct told her that beneath all her peculiaritiesthere lay much that was good and noble. She smiled up ather, therefore, and nodded a greeting.

"Why aren't you playing, then? Don't, for goodness'sake, begin to be languid and young ladyish! When yougive up active sports you give up youth."

"I have played a set, Mrs. Westmacott."

"That's right, my dear." She sat down beside her, andtapped her upon the arm with her tennis racket. "I likeyou, my dear, and I am going to call you Clara. You arenot as aggressive as I should wish, Clara, but still Ilike you very much. Self-sacrifice is all very well, youknow, but we have had rather too much of it on our side,and should like to see a little on the other. What doyou think of my nephew Charles?"

The question was so sudden and unexpected that Claragave quite a jump in her chair. "I--I--I hardly everhave thought of your nephew Charles."

"No? Oh, you must think him well over, for I want tospeak to you about him."

"To me? But why?"

"It seemed to me most delicate. You see, Clara, thematter stands in this way. It is quite possible that Imay soon find myself in a completely new sphere of life,which will involve fresh duties and make it impossiblefor me to keep up a household which Charles can share."

Clara stared. Did this mean that she was about tomarry again? What else could it point to?

"Therefore Charles must have a household of his own. That is obvious. Now, I don't approve of bachelorestablishments. Do you?"

"Really, Mrs. Westmacott, I have never thought of thematter."

"Oh, you little sly puss! Was there ever a girl whonever thought of the matter? I think that a young man ofsix-and-twenty ought to be married."

Clara felt very uncomfortable. The awful thought hadcome upon her that this ambassadress had come to her asa proxy with a proposal of marriage. But how could thatbe? She had not spoken more than three or four timeswith her nephew, and knew nothing more of him than he hadtold her on the evening before. It was impossible, then. And yet what could his aunt mean by this discussion ofhis private affairs?

"Do you not think yourself," she persisted, "that ayoung man of six-and-twenty is better married?"

"I should think that he is old enough to decide forhimself."

"Yes, yes. He has done so. But Charles is just alittle shy, just a little slow in expressing himself. Ithought that I would pave the way for him. Two women canarrange these things so much better. Men sometimes havea difficulty in making themselves clear."

"I really hardly follow you, Mrs. Westmacott," criedClara in despair.

"He has no profession. But he has nice tastes. Hereads Browning every night. And he is most amazinglystrong. When he was younger we used to put on the glovestogether, but I cannot persuade him to now, for he sayshe cannot play light enough. I should allow him fivehundred, which should be enough at first."

"My dear Mrs. Westmacott," cried Clara, "I assure youthat I have not the least idea what it is that you aretalking of."

"Do you think your sister Ida would have my nephewCharles?"

Her sister Ida? Quite a little thrill of relief andof pleasure ran through her at the thought. Ida andCharles Westmacott. She had never thought of it. Andyet they had been a good deal together. They had playedtennis. They had shared the tandem tricycle. Again camethe thrill of joy, and close at its heels the coldquestionings of conscience. Why this joy? What was thereal source of it? Was it that deep down, somewherepushed back in the black recesses of the soul, there wasthe thought lurking that if Charles prospered in hiswooing then Harold Denver would still be free? How mean,how unmaidenly, how unsisterly the thought! She crushedit down and thrust it aside, but still it would push upits wicked little head. She crimsoned with shame at herown 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 I am not sure. But he may ask. She cannotbut be flattered."

"Quite so. I tell him that it is the most practicalcompliment which a man can pay to a woman. He is alittle shy, but when he sets himself to do it he willdo it. He is very much in love with her, I assureyou. These little lively people always do attractthe slow and heavy ones, which is nature's device for theneutralizing of bores. But they are all going in. Ithink if you will allow me that I will just take theopportunity to tell him that, as far as you know, thereis no positive obstacle in the way."

"As far as I know, "Clara repeated, as the widowmoved away to where the players were grouped round thenet, or sauntering slowly towards the house. She rose tofollow her, but her head was in a whirl with newthoughts, and she sat down again. Which would be bestfor Ida, Harold or Charles? She thought it over with asmuch solicitude as a mother who plans for her only child. Harold had seemed to her to be in many ways the noblestand the best young man whom she had known. If ever shewas to love a man it would be such a man as that. Butshe must not think of herself. She had reason to believethat both these men loved her sister. Which would be thebest for her? But perhaps the matter was alreadydecided. She could not forget the scrap of conversationwhich she had heard the night before, nor the secretwhich her sister had refused to confide to her. If Idawould not tell her, there was but one person who could. She raised her eyes and there was Harold Denverstanding before 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 seemsrather a waste of time as a rule, for things have a wayof working themselves out just as you least expect."

"What were you planning, then?"

"The future."

"Whose?"

"Oh, my own and Ida's."

"And was I included in your joint futures?

"I hope all our friends were included."

"Don't go in," said he, as she began to move slowlytowards the house. "I wanted to have a word. Let usstroll up and down the lawn. Perhaps you are cold. Ifyou are, I could bring you out a shawl."

"Oh, no, I am not cold."

"I was speaking to your sister Ida last night." Shenoticed that there was a slight quiver in his voice, and,glancing up at his dark, clear-cut face, she saw that hewas very grave. She felt that it was settled, that hehad come 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 whohas not lived with her and known her intimately cantell how charming and good she is. She is like a sunbeamin the house."

"No one who was not good could be so absolutely happyas she seems to be. Heaven's last gift, I think, is amind so pure and a spirit so high that it is unable evento see what is impure and evil in the world around us. For as long as we can see it, how can we be truly happy?"

"She has a deeper side also. She does not turn it tothe world, and it is not natural that she should, for sheis very young. But she thinks, and has aspirations ofher own."

"You cannot admire her more than I do. Indeed, MissWalker, I only ask to be brought into nearer relationshipwith her, and to feel that there is a permanent bondbetween us."

It had come at last. For a moment her heart wasnumbed within her, and then a flood of sisterly lovecarried all before it. Down with that dark thought whichwould still try to raise its unhallowed head! She turnedto Harold with sparkling eyes and words of pleasure uponher 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 bemy sister, and you my wife."

She said nothing. She only stood looking at him withparted lips and great, dark, questioning eyes. Thelawn had vanished away, the sloping gardens, the brickvillas, the darkening sky with half a pale moon beginningto show over the chimney-tops. All was gone, and she wasonly conscious of a dark, earnest, pleading face, and ofa voice, far away, disconnected from herself, the voiceof a man telling a woman how he loved her. He wasunhappy, said the voice, his life was a void; there wasbut one thing that could save him; he had come to theparting of the ways, here lay happiness and honor, andall that was high and noble; there lay the soul-killinground, the lonely life, the base pursuit of money, thesordid, selfish aims. He needed but the hand of thewoman that he loved to lead him into the better path. And how he loved her his life would show. He loved herfor her sweetness, for her womanliness, for her strength. He had need of her. Would she not come to him? And thenof a sudden as she listened it came home to her that theman was Harold Denver, and that she was the woman, andthat all God's work was very beautiful--the green swardbeneath her feet, the rustling leaves, the long orangeslashes in the western sky. She spoke; she scarce knewwhat the broken words were, but she saw the light of joyshine out on his face, and her hand was still in his asthey wandered amid the twilight. They said no morenow, but only wandered and felt each other's presence. All was fresh around them, familiar and yet new, tingedwith the beauty of their new-found happiness.

"Did you not know it before?" he asked. "I did notdare to think it."

"What a mask of ice I must wear! How could a manfeel as I have done without showing it? Your sister atleast knew."

"Ida!"

"It was last night. She began to praise you, I saidwhat I felt, and then in an instant it was all out."

"But what could you--what could you see in me? Oh,I do pray that you may not repent it!" The gentle heartwas ruffled amid its joy by the thought of its ownunworthiness.

"Repent it! I feel that I am a saved man. You donot know how degrading this city life is, how debasing,and yet how absorbing. Money for ever clinks in yourear. You can think of nothing else. From the bottom ofmy heart I hate it, and yet how can I draw back withoutbringing grief to my dear old father? There was but oneway in which I could defy the taint, and that was byhaving a home influence so pure and so high that it maybrace me up against all that draws me down. I have feltthat influence already. I know that when I am talking toyou I am a better man. It is you who, must go withme through life, or I must walk for ever alone."

"Oh, Harold, I am so happy!" Still they wanderedamid the darkening shadows, while one by one the starspeeped out in the blue black sky above them. At last achill night wind blew up from the east, and brought themback to the realities of life.

"You must go in. You will be cold."

"My father will wonder where I am. Shall I sayanything to him?"

"If you like, my darling. Or I will in the morning. I must tell my mother to-night. I know how delighted shewill be."

"I do hope so."

"Let me take you up the garden path. It is so dark. Your lamp is not lit yet. There is the window. Tillto-morrow, then, dearest."

"Till to-morrow, Harold."

"My own darling!" He stooped, and their lips met forthe first time. Then, as she pushed open the foldingwindows she heard his quick, firm step as it passed downthe graveled path. A lamp was lit as she entered theroom, and there was Ida, dancing about like a mischievouslittle fairy in front of her.

"And have you anything to tell me?" she asked, witha solemn face. Then, suddenly throwing her arms roundher sister's neck, "Oh, you dear, dear old Clara! I amso pleased. I am so pleased."