“Aunt Susan hasn’t got any,” remarked Helen, letting the conversation drift away a little. “It is that which makes her so restful. Her mind is like a cushion. It is quite soft, and if you lean on it you make great dents in it.” Martin remained quite serious, staring at the water with vacant black eyes. “Poor father!” he said at length. “Just think; you and me, Helen. He must find us awfully trying.” “I know; and he continues to love us so. It is that which makes it so dreadful. Oh, Martin, do get through your stupid examination. Do turn out satisfactory, as I’ve been so eminently the reverse.” Martin transferred his gaze to his sister. “I really don’t think there’s much chance of it,” he said. “Of your getting through?” “I might manage that. But there are other things. The career I propose, for instance.” “But he’s reconciled to that,” said Helen. “That’s nothing new.” Martin paddled on without answering this, and Helen looked at him rather closely. “There is something more,” she said. “What is it? Is there not something more?” He brought the boat up to the bank in Byron’s pool, where they were to disembark. “Yes, there is,” he said. “At least, there may be. There is no use in my telling you now. If it happens, if I am sure it is going to happen, I will tell you beforehand. I promise you that. And now I think we won’t talk any more about it.” But a sudden uneasiness seized the girl. “Promise me one thing,” she said. “Promise me it is nothing disgraceful.” Martin looked rather injured. “No; I have not been stealing hens,” he said. “And it is compatible with the highest character.” Helen looked at him a moment in silence. “Then I’m not afraid,” she said. “And I will try not to guess at it until you tell me.” The afternoon was intensely hot, and having arrived here, they settled that a boat under trees was far more to the point than walking under the blaze of the sun, and Helen merely reclined more recumbently on a pile of cushions. “I think we will go for a walk to-morrow, Martin,” she said, “instead of to-day.” “That may be. By the way, I met last week that nice girl who was down at Chartries on the Sunday when I got into so many rows. What was her name?” “I haven’t the slightest idea,” said Helen. “Yes, you have. Oh, I know--Miss Pl---- Oh, yes,--Stella Plympton.” Helen did not answer for a moment. “Well, I shall go to sleep,” she said. “Martin!” “Well?” “You did that remarkably badly,” she said; “a cow could give you points in dissimulation. You remembered her name perfectly.” * * * * *