“It sounds like a charm.”

“No, it is a gentleman’s name.  Three gentlemen, I thought, at first, but my aunt says one.  Then he goes on, `Thinketh he dwelleth in the light of the 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 have thought of that.  But you must remember that my aunt is to all intents hardly middle-aged, and a very eligible person.  I don’t think that her dislike to mankind extends to individuals.  She might form new ties, and then I should be a third wheel in the coach.  It was all very well as long as I was only a 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 in his eyes.  “Oh, it is only a remote, possibility, you know,” said he.  “Still, of course, it might happen, and I should like to know what I ought to turn my hand to.”

“I wish I could help you,” said Clara.  “But I really know very little 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. Westmacott, for papa will be wondering where I am.”

“Good night, 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 figures moving across towards the house.  As they came nearer she could distinguish that they were Harold Denver and her sister Ida.  The murmur of their voices rose up to her ears, and then the musical little child-like 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 were 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 together through the long folding window.  The Doctor had gone into his study, and the dining-room was empty.  A single small red lamp upon the sideboard 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.  “I rather like this quiet light,” said she.  “Why should we not have a chat?” She sat in the Doctor’s large red plush chair, and her sister cuddled down upon the footstool at her feet, glancing up at her elder with a smile upon her lips and a mischievous gleam in her eyes.  There was a shade of anxiety in Clara’s face, which cleared away as she gazed into her sister’s frank blue eyes.