Martin! There were no words into which she could put what she felt, any more than the pervading sunlight could be put into words. It was there, a great, huge, exultant presence that flooded everything. Ah, the beloved twin! Why, it was only a few years ago that he was in Eton jackets and broad white collars and sang treble. And she? Well, yes, she was in short frocks about the same time. Yet had not she, half an hour ago, down in the wood below her, where the young leaves hung like a green mist around the purple branches of the birch, felt a loving arm round her and kisses on her face. Oh, it was very wrong of Frank. No, not wrong of him,--he would have stood aside, he did stand aside to let her pass. It was very wrong of her. But at that moment she could not pass by,--it was as if her power of movement had been paralysed. Yet she was not in the least degree ashamed of herself, and she looked forward with a certain secret glee to telling her father,--for that had to be done,--for so by speaking of it she would live it over again. “No, that was not all,” she said to herself, rehearsing question and answer, “He kissed me.” Sunlight, and larks invisible, and the shadows of clouds that coursed over the downs. And some distance off a tall figure, moving towards her rapidly, a figure she easily recognised. They came nearer and met. Her hat was in her hand, her hair tossed over her forehead, and there was spring and the sure promise of summer in her face. And in her father’s, too, there was something of that infused joy. His hand held a little bunch of primroses, which he had plucked as he walked. They met without words, but with smiles, the unconscious smile that the morning had made. “Well, Helen?” said he. “You look, indeed you look like the morning.” He came close to her and with his neat precision put the primroses into her hat. “You ought to pin them,” he said. “They will fall out.” She laughed. “Ah, nothing can fall out to-day,” she said. “Don’t you feel it, father? Spring, spring--and--oh, the daffodils. And I have news.” Then her face sobered suddenly. “Two pieces of news,” she said, smiling again, unable not to be gay. “The first is of Martin: he is engaged to be married. He asked me to tell you. Stella Plympton, whom you met here. He wrote me just a line, asking me to tell you.” Her instinct was right to repeat that. Sharp as a knife, a father’s jealousy had pierced him. He should have been told first; whatever his disagreements with Martin, he, his father, ought to have been told first. But that passed in a moment. “Martin?” he said, gently. “The boy?” “Yes; I thought of it like that. But he is really--oh, ever so old. As old as I am.” Mr. Challoner’s face relaxed. “I had forgotten,” he said; “an immense age. What next, Helen?” She looked up at him. “Is that all you have to say?” she asked, feeling suddenly chilly and disappointed. “You think I am hard, Helen,” he said. “I try to be. But what next?”