“Henry,” she said softly, after resting silently for a minute, “ask Mrs. Fellowes what we want to know—tell her our—our fears.” He came over and laid his hand on her sunny head, that time seemed to have quite forgotten. “My dear friends,” he said solemnly, “my wife and I are in some perplexity. The fact is—h’m—we have never, so to speak, known much of our daughter Gwen, she is a difficult person to know. From time to time we have attempted to gain some nearer knowledge of her, but she—ahem—in fact, did not seem inclined to encourage our advances. From her very babyhood,” he went on more fluently, “the girl has interested us very keenly, she has been quite a study to us, but I regret to say we have never arrived at any very definite conclusions about her, we have never quite understood her.” “Never!” said Mrs. Waring, suddenly bending towards Mrs. Fellowes, with a look very like terror in her face. “Of course you more than I, dear,” said Mr. Waring, “you have your woman’s instincts to guide you, and they, as a rule, are trustworthy.” “I have never known Gwen,” said she, with very unusual decision. “What is your opinion on this matter?” said Mr. Waring, turning to Mr. Fellowes, “you know our daughter.” It was all cruelly pathetic, his voice, and his face, and his gesture, and the strained hopeless look in his small wife’s eyes. “Gwen is not ready yet for complete happiness,” said Mr. Fellowes; “when she is, it will come to her in full measure.” “But—she is a person of intelligence and what is called grown-up,” said Mr. Waring anxiously, “and very perfect in her development—outwardly,” he added, a doubtful look fleeting across his face. “Yes, to look at, she is perfect, but does it not strike you,” said Mrs. Fellowes slowly, “that much of Gwen’s womanhood is still elemental? Do you not think that some of her senses are also still in that condition?” “Ah!” murmured Mr. Waring, looking sadly down on his wife, “Ah! I have thought, I have feared this. I cannot see in our daughter Gwen a complete creature, but I thought, knowing so little of women as I do, that I might be mistaken. Do you hope for ultimate completeness in our daughter?” he asked suddenly, watching curiously for the answer. The Rector’s superior knowledge of Gwen had fixed him very uncomfortably on a pedestal, there was no getting off it just yet, he had to make the best of the situation. “Indeed I do, no half development will content Gwen when she learns her deficiencies, nor her husband either.” “These elements then may develop to ultimate greatness or wither and die—to reappear, of course, in some form or other. But to disappear from our knowledge untimely! Ah! that would be sad waste. We will hope it may not occur. Do you happen to know if her husband looks on our daughter as we do, in relation to her ultimate possibilities of development, or if he has chosen her for the thing she looks—a most beautiful and finished young woman of fair intelligence?”