Ida sat listening to the stumbling words and awkward phrases which were whispered from the back of her, but there was something in Charles Westmacott’s clumsiness of speech which was more moving than the words of the most eloquent of pleaders.  He paused, he stammered, he caught his breath between the words, and he blurted out in little blunt phrases all the hopes of his heart.  If love had not come to her yet, there was at least pity and sympathy, which are nearly akin to it.  Wonder there was also that one so weak and frail as she should shake this strong man so, should have the whole course of his life waiting for her decision.  Her left hand was on the cushion at her side.  He leaned forward and took it gently in his own.  She did not try to draw it back from him.

“May I have it,” said he, “for life?”

“Oh, do attend to your steering,” said she, smiling round at him; “and don’t say any more about this to-day.  Please don’t!”

“When shall I know, then?”

“Oh, to-night, to-morrow, I don’t know.  I must ask Clara.  Talk about something else.”

And they did talk about something else; but her left hand was still enclosed in his, and he knew, without asking again, that all was well.

——­

CHAPTER VIII.

SHADOWS BEFORE.

Mrs. Westmacott’s great meeting for the enfranchisement of woman had passed over, and it had been a triumphant success.  All the maids and matrons of the southern suburbs had rallied at her summons, there was an influential platform with Dr. Balthazar Walker in the chair, and Admiral Hay Denver among his more prominent supporters.  One benighted male had come in from the outside darkness and had jeered from the further end of the hall, but he had been called to order by the chair, petrified by indignant glances from the unenfranchised around him, and finally escorted to the door by Charles Westmacott.  Fiery resolutions were passed, to be forwarded to a large number of leading statesmen, and the meeting broke up with the conviction that a shrewd blow had been struck for the cause of woman.

But there was one woman at least to whom the meeting and all that was connected with it had brought anything but pleasure.  Clara Walker watched with a heavy heart the friendship and close intimacy which had sprung up between her father and the widow.  From week to week it had increased until no day ever passed without their being together.  The coming meeting had been the excuse for these continual interviews, but now the meeting was over, and still the Doctor would refer every point which rose to the judgment of his neighbor.  He would talk, too, to his two daughters of her strength of character, her decisive mind, and of the necessity of their cultivating her acquaintance and following her example, until at last it had become his most common topic of conversation.