“I’m at the mercy of my interpreter,” said Isabel.  “But I thought”—­her eyes went out upon the skyline again—­“I thought that men—­that men—­I thought that men—­My dear, you’ve made me forget what I thought!”

They laughed, all three.  Isabel, with a playful sigh, clutched her mother’s hand, and the pair drew off and moved away to the bench.

“He puts you in good spirits,” said the mother, breaking a silence.

“Good spirits!  He puts me in pure heartache.  Oh, why did you tell him?”

“Tell him?  My child!  I have not told him!”

“Oh, mother, do you not see you’ve told him point-blank that it’s all settled?”

“No, dearie, no!  I only see that your distress is making you fanciful.  But why should he not be told, Isabel?”

“I’m not ready!  Oh, I’m not ready!  It may suit him well enough to hear it, for he knows Leonard is too fine and great for me; but I’m not ready to tell him.”

“My darling, he knows you are good enough for any Leonard he can bring.”

“Oh yes, on the plane of the Ten Commandments.”  The girl smiled unhappily.

“But precious, he loves Arthur deeply, and thinks the world of him.”

“Mother, what is it like, to love deeply?”

The query was ignored.  “And the old gentleman is fond of you, sweetheart.”

“Oh, he likes me.  What a tame old invalid that word ‘fond’ has grown to be!  You can be fond of two or three persons at once, nowadays.  My soul!  I wish I were fond of Arthur Winslow in the old mad way the word meant when it was young!”

“Pshaw, dearie! you’ll be fond enough of him, once you’re his.  He’s brilliant, upright, loving and lovable.  You see, and say, he is so, and I know your fondness will grow with every day and every experience, happy or bitter.”

“Yes....  Yes, I could not endure not to give my love bountifully wherever it rightly belongs.  But oh, I wish I had it ready to-day,—­a fondness to match his!”

“Now, Isabel!  Why, pet, thousands of happy and loving wives will tell you”—­

“Oh, I know what they will tell me.”

“They’ll not tell you they get along without love, dearie.  But ten years from now, my daughter, not how fond you were when you first joined hands, but what you have”—­

“Oh yes,—­been to each other, done for each other, borne from each other, will be the true measure.  Oh, of course it will; but there’s so much in the right start!”

“Beyond doubt!  Understand me, precious:  if you have the least ground to fear”—­

“Mother! mother!  No! no!  What! afraid I may love some one else?  Never! never!  Oh, without boasting, and knowing what I am as well as Leonard Byington knows”—­

“Oh, pshaw!  Leonard Byington!”

“He knows me, mother,—­as if he lived at a higher window that looked down into my back yard.”  The speaker smiled.

“Then he knows,” exclaimed the mother, “you’re true gold!”