affairs are satisfactorily done with their wings wither away, and thenceforth they have to content themselves with running about on the earth.  Now isn’t this a remarkable parallel to one stage of human life?  Do not men and women also soar and flutter—­at a certain time?  And don’t their wings manifestly drop off as soon as the end of that skyward movement has been achieved?  If the gods had made me poetical, I would sonnetise on this idea.  Do you know any poet with a fondness for the ant-philosophy?  If so, offer him this suggestion with liberty to “make any use of it he likes”.

’But the fact of the matter is that some human beings are never winged at all.  I am decidedly coming to the conclusion that I am one of those.  Think of me henceforth as an apteryx—­you have a dictionary at hand?  Like the tailless fox, I might naturally maintain that my state is the more gracious, but honestly I am not assured of that.  It may be (I half believe it is) a good thing to soar and flutter, and at times I regret that nature has forbidden me that experience.  Decidedly I would never try to persuade anyone else to forego the use of wings.  Bear this in mind, my dear girl.  But I suspect that in time to come there will be an increasing number of female human creatures who from their birth are content with walking.  Not long ago, I had occasion to hint that—­though under another figure—­to your brother Buckland.  I hope he understood me—­I think he did—­and that he wasn’t offended.

‘I had something to tell you.  I have forgotten it—­never mind.’

And therewith the odd epistle was concluded.  Sidwell perused the latter part several times.  Of course she was at no loss to interpret it.  Buckland’s demeanour for the past two months had led her to surmise that his latest visit to Budleigh Salterton had finally extinguished the hopes which drew him in that direction.  His recent censure of Sylvia might be thus explained.  She grieved that her brother’s suit should be discouraged, but could not persuade herself that Sylvia’s decision was final.  The idea of a match between those two was very pleasant to her.  For Buckland she imagined it would be fraught with good results, and for Sylvia, on the whole, it might be the best thing.

Before she replied to her friend nearly a month passed, and Christmas was at hand.  Again she had been much in society.  Mr. Walsh had renewed his unmistakable attentions, and, when her manner of meeting them began to trouble him with doubts, had cleared the air by making a formal offer of marriage.  Sidwell’s negative was absolute, much to her mother’s relief.  On the day of that event, she wrote rather a long letter to Sylvia, but Mr. Walsh’s name was not mentioned in it.

’Mother tells me [it began] that your mother has written to her from Salisbury, and that you yourself are going there for a stay of some weeks.  I am sorry, for on the Monday after Christmas Day I shall be in Exeter, and hoped somehow to have seen you.  We—­mother and I—­are going to run down together, to see after certain domestic affairs; only for three days at most.