"Tell me, Miss Walker! You know how things shouldbe. What would you say was a good profession for a youngman of twenty-six who has had no education worth speakingabout, and who is not very quick by nature?" The speakerwas Charles Westmacott, and the time this same summerevening in the tennis ground, though the shadows hadfallen now and the game been abandoned.

The girl glanced up at him, amused and surprised.

"Do you mean yourself?"

"Precisely."

"But how could I tell?"

"I have no one to advise me. I believe that youcould do it better than any one. I feel confidence inyour opinion."

"It is very flattering." She glanced up again at hisearnest, questioning face, with its Saxon eyes anddrooping flaxen mustache, in some doubt as to whether hemight be joking. On the contrary, all his attentionseemed to be concentrated upon her answer.

"It depends so much upon what you can do, youknow. I do not know you sufficiently to be able to saywhat natural gifts you have." They were walking slowlyacross the lawn in the direction 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 anything. I can put up ahundred-pound bar till further orders; but what sort ofa calling is that?"

Some little joke about being called to the barflickered up in Miss Walker's mind, but her companion wasin such obvious earnest that she stifled down herinclination to laugh.

"I can do a mile on the cinder-track in 4:50 andacross-country in 5:20, but how is that to help me? Imight be a cricket professional, but it is not a verydignified position. Not that I care a straw aboutdignity, you know, but I should not like to hurt the oldlady's feelings.

"Your aunt's?"

"Yes, my aunt's. My parents were killed in theMutiny, you know, when I was a baby, and she has lookedafter me ever since. She has been very good to me. I'msorry to leave her."

"But why should you leave her?" They had reached thegarden gate, and the girl leaned her racket upon the topof it, looking up with grave interest at her bigwhite-flanneled companion.

"It's, Browning," said he.

"What!"

"Don't tell my aunt that I said it"--he sank hisvoice to a whisper--"I hate Browning."

Clara Walker rippled off into such a merry peal oflaughter that he forgot the evil things which he hadsuffered from the poet, and burst out laughing too.

"I can't make him out," said he. "I try, but he isone too many. No doubt it is very stupid of me; I don'tdeny it. But as long as I cannot there is no usepretending that I can. And then of course she feelshurt, for she is very fond of him, and likes to read himaloud in the evenings. She is reading a piece now `PippaPasses,' and I assure you, Miss Walker, that I don't evenknow what the title means. You must think me a dreadfulfool."

"But surely he is not so incomprehensible as allthat?" she said, as an attempt at encouragement.

"He is very bad. There are some things, you know,which are fine. That ride of the three Dutchmen, andHerve Riel and others, they are all right. But there wasa piece we read last week. The first line stumped myaunt, and it takes a good deal to do that, for she ridesvery straight. `Setebos and Setebos and Setebos.' Thatwas the line."

"It sounds like a charm."

"No, it is a gentleman's name. Three gentlemen, Ithought, at first, but my aunt says one. Then he goeson, `Thinketh he dwelleth in the light of the moon.' Itwas 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 have thought of that. But you mustremember that my aunt is to all intents hardlymiddle-aged, and a very eligible person. I don't thinkthat her dislike to mankind extends to individuals. Shemight form new ties, and then I should be a third wheelin the coach. It was all very well as long as I was onlya boy, when her first husband was alive."

"But, good gracious, you don't mean that Mrs.Westmacott is going to marry again?" gasped Clara.

The young man glanced down at her with a question inhis eyes "Oh, it is only a remote, possibility, youknow," said he. "Still, of course, it might happen, andI should like to know what I ought to turn my hand to."

"I wish I could help you," said Clara. "But I reallyknow very little about such things. However, I couldtalk to my father, who knows a very great deal of theworld."

"I wish you would. I should be so glad if youwould."

"Then I certainly will. And now I must saygood-night, Mr. Westmacott, for papa will be wonderingwhere I am."

"Good night, Miss Walker." He pulled off his flannelcap, and stalked away through the gathering darkness.

Clara had imagined that they had been the last on thelawn, but, looking back from the steps which led up tothe French windows, she saw two dark figures movingacross towards the house. As they came nearer she coulddistinguish that they were Harold Denver and her sisterIda. The murmur of their voices rose up to her ears, andthen the musical little child-like laugh which she knewso well. "I am so delighted," she heard her sister say. "So pleased and proud. I had no idea of it. Your wordswere such a surprise and a joy to me. Oh, I am so glad."

"Is that you, Ida?"

"Oh, there is Clara. I must go in, Mr. Denver. Good-night!"

There were a few whispered words, a laugh from Ida,and a "Good-night, Miss Walker," out of the darkness. Clara took her sister's hand, and they passed togetherthrough the long folding window. The Doctor had goneinto his study, and the dining-room was empty. A singlesmall red lamp upon the sideboard was reflected tenfoldby the plate about it and the mahogany beneath it,though its single wick cast but a feeble light into thelarge, dimly shadowed room. Ida danced off to the bigcentral lamp, but Clara put her hand upon her arm. "Irather like this quiet light," said she. "Why should wenot have a chat?" She sat in the Doctor's large redplush chair, and her sister cuddled down upon thefootstool at her feet, glancing up at her elder with asmile upon her lips and a mischievous gleam in her eyes. There was a shade of anxiety in Clara's face, whichcleared away as she gazed into her sister's frank blueeyes.

"Have you anything to tell me, dear?" she asked.

Ida gave a little pout and shrug to her shoulder. "The Solicitor-General then opened the case for theprosecution," said she. "You are going to cross-examineme, Clara, so don't deny it. I do wish you would havethat grey satin foulard of yours done up. With a littletrimming and a new white vest it would look as good asnew, and it is really very dowdy."

"You were quite late upon the lawn," said theinexorable Clara.

"Yes, I was rather. So were you. Have you anythingto tell me?" She broke away into her merry musicallaugh.

"I was chatting with Mr. Westmacott."

"And I was chatting with Mr. Denver. By the way,Clara, now tell me truly, what do you think of Mr.Denver? Do you like him? Honestly now!"

"I like him very much indeed. I think that he is oneof the most gentlemanly, modest, manly young men that Ihave ever known. So now, dear, have you nothing to tellme?" Clara smoothed down her sister's golden hair witha motherly gesture, and stooped her face to catch theexpected confidence. She could wish nothing better thanthat Ida should be the wife of Harold Denver, and fromthe words which she had overheard as they left the lawnthat evening, she could not doubt that there was someunderstanding between them.

But there came no confession from Ida. Only the samemischievous smile and amused gleam in her deep blue eyes.

"That grey foulard dress----" she began.

"Oh, you little tease! Come now, I will ask you whatyou 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 nothingmore out of me; so you must wait and not be too curious. I'm going off to see what papa is doing." She sprang toher feet, threw her arms round her sister's neck,gave her a final squeeze, and was gone. A chorus fromOlivette, sung in her clear contralto, grew fainter andfainter until it ended in the slam of a distant door.

But Clara Walker still sat in the dim-lit room withher chin upon her hands, and her dreamy eyes looking outinto the gathering gloom. It was the duty of her, amaiden, to play the part of a mother--to guide another inpaths which her own steps had not yet trodden. Since hermother died not a thought had been given to herself, allwas for her father and her sister. In her own eyes shewas herself very plain, and she knew that her manner wasoften ungracious when she would most wish to be gracious. She saw her face as the glass reflected it, but she didnot see the changing play of expression which gave it itscharm--the infinite pity, the sympathy, the sweetwomanliness which drew towards her all who were in doubtand in trouble, even as poor slow-moving CharlesWestmacott had been drawn to her that night. She washerself, she thought, outside the pale of love. But itwas very different with Ida, merry, little, quick-witted,bright-faced Ida. She was born for love. It was herinheritance. But she was young and innocent. She mustnot be allowed to venture too far without help in thosedangerous waters. Some understanding there was betweenher and Harold Denver. In her heart of hearts Clara,like every good woman, was a match-maker, and already shehad chosen Denver of all men as the one to whom she couldmost safely confide Ida. He had talked to her more thanonce on the serious topics of life, on his aspirations,on what a man could do to leave the world better for hispresence. She knew that he was a man of a noble nature,high-minded and earnest. And yet she did not like thissecrecy, this disinclination upon the part of one sofrank and honest as Ida to tell her what was passing. She would wait, and if she got the opportunity next dayshe would lead Harold Denver himself on to this topic. It was possible that she might learn from him what hersister had refused to tell her.