There was a minute's pause, during which the Rev Arthur broke off the young vine-shoot by accident, and then stood trying to replace it again. At last Miss Rosebury spoke. "Arthur," she said--and her brother started and seemed to shiver, though she saw it not--"Arthur, Henry Bolter has asked me to be his wife!" The Reverend Arthur turned round now in his astonishment, with his face deadly white and the tiny beads of perspiration upon his forehead. "Asked you to be his wife?" he said. "Yes, dear." "I am astonished," cried the Reverend Arthur. "No, I am not," he added thoughtfully. "He seemed to like you very much, Mary." "And I like him very much, Arthur, for I think him a truly good, amiable, earnest man." "He is my dear Mary--he is indeed; but--but--" "But what, Arthur? Were you going to say that you could not spare me?" "I--I hardly know what I was about to say, Mary, you took me so by surprise. It would be very strange, though, to be here without you." "And you will not be, Arthur. I felt that I must tell you. I have nothing that I keep from you; but I have refused him." "You have refused him," he said thoughtfully. "Yes, I felt that it would not be right to let a comparative stranger come in here and break up at once our happy little home. No, Arthur, this must all be like some dream. You and I, dear brother, are fast growing into elderly people; and love such as that is the luxury of the young." "Love such as that," said the Reverend Arthur, softly, "is the luxury of the young!" "Yes, dear brother, it would be folly in me to give way to such feelings!" "Do you like Harry?" he exclaimed, suddenly. "Yes," she said, quietly. "I have felt day by day, Arthur, that I liked him more and more. It was and is a wonder to me at my age; but I should not be honest if I did not own that I liked him." "It is very strange, Mary," said the curate, softly. "Yes, it is very strange," she said; "and as I think of it all, I am obliged to own to myself, that after all I should have liked to be married. It is such a revival of the past." The curate nodded his head several times as he let himself sink down upon the greenhouse steps, resting his hands upon his knees. "But it is all past now, Arthur," said the lady, quickly, and the tears were in her eyes, "we are both too old, my dear brother; and as soon as these visitors are gone, we will forget all disturbing influences, and go back to our happy old humdrum life." She could not trust herself to say more, but hurried off to her room, leaving the Reverend Arthur gazing fixedly at the red-brick floor. "We are too old," he muttered softly, from time to time; and as he said those words there seemed to stand before him the tall, well-developed figure of a dark-eyed, beauteous woman, who was gazing at him softly from between her half-closed, heavily-fringed lids.