“More—you exercise the faculties that have been well exercised already. I didn’t get my ‘blue’ that way. At first I was a hopeless duffer at cricket. I believed that I wasn’t built for cricket. But something inside of me bit at my vitals, and I went to work with my brains—and after much tribulation I got there.” “By Jove! you did!” “Well, suppose you profit by my experience. Try harder to measure your own potentialities. Joyce has lost her mother. I try, very ineffectively, to take her place. In a word, Lionel, playing about with Joyce may be fun for you, regarding her as you do almost as a sister, but it might be disastrous for her. What it has cost me to say this you may realise when you have a daughter of your own.” “Thank you, sir,” said Lionel, in a different tone. This talk with a man who detested mere chatter opened Lionel’s eyes. Was it possible that little Joyce could care for him in another way? It is humorous to reflect that Hamlin—acting according to his lights—had brought about the one consummation he wished to avoid. He had underrated Lionel’s modesty, and indicated possibilities which hitherto had been beyond the young fellow’s horizon. Probably, Mrs. Hamlin—had she been alive—would have handled the same subject differently. The mere idea that Joyce might regard him other than as a pal made Lionel think of her, tenderly and chivalrously, as a woman abundantly equipped to inspire a warmer sentiment than friendship. But when he put the straight question to his inner consciousness: “Am I in love?” he couldn’t answer it. But he obeyed the letter of the Parson’s injunction. He made no further effort to secure those pleasant heart-to-heart talks which he had missed so confoundedly. And here again—as the judicious will agree—he was playing Cupid’s game. Joyce felt piqued by the subtle change in him. She wondered if she had offended him. We are at liberty to divulge one secret. Moxon had proposed. And she had refused him. Possibly, the Parson divined the reason. As a rule, penniless daughters of poor clergymen do not say “No” to eligible young men, unless their affections are otherwisely engaged. It is certain that Joyce—with her old-fashioned upbringing—was incapable of frankly admitting to herself that she loved a man whose feelings were agreeably fraternal. If, in maiden meditation, she dared to envisage Lionel as a lover, it is equally certain that she shrank, tremblingly, from the issues involved. Love passages with Sir Geoffrey Pomfret’s son and heir meant—ructions. Moxon behaved with discretion and cleverness. He went away with the Parson’s permission to return after a decent interval. He perceived that he had “rushed” Joyce, and apologised so handsomely that she felt absurdly sorry for him, and inclined to blame herself. Indeed, having said “No” with unmistakable emphasis, she spent a sleepless but not altogether disagreeable night in speculating what her future might have been had she said “Yes.”