“Martin, if we didn’t happen to have been brother and sister we should have fallen desperately in love with each other and been accepted at once. At least I should have proposed to you, and you would certainly have said ‘Yes.’ And I should have made home happy for you on twopence farthing a year, and always had your slippers warm when you came home in the evening, and the kettle boiling on the hob. And you could have spent the rest of our joint incomes on grand pianos and music paper.” “You are too overwhelmingly generous, Helen,” said he. “I don’t think I can accept it from you.” Helen got up. “Oh, how I hate, how I hate----“ she began. “That’s no use,” said Martin. “Use? Of course not. Oh, it’s all very well for you. You are away half the year at Cambridge, and have no end of a time. But I am here. I and the Room!” “What’s the ‘Room’?” asked her brother. Helen pushed back her hair again and sat down on the lawn by Martin. “The Room is the latest of my many trials,” she said. “It is quite new. Outside it is corrugated iron, inside it is distemper, covered by a dreadful sort of moisture, which is Essence of Village Children. On the walls there are maps of the Holy Land and Hampshire. I know the road from Dan even unto Beersheba as well as I know the road from here to Winchester. There is a library there of soiled books of travel and missionary enterprise, and a complete set of “Good Words.” There is also a wellspring there, only I can’t find it and stop it up, which continually pours up an odour of stuffiness. It is the sort of place where nothing nice could ever happen. And there on Tuesday evening I teach arithmetic to dreadful little boys. On Wednesday I read to mothers,--I am getting to hate the word,--who knit shapeless articles while I read. I read them abominable little stories about the respective powers of faith, hope, and love, and the virtue of being good, and the vice of being wicked. I don’t suppose any of them could be wicked if they tried.” Helen paused a moment. “Oh, Martin, it is heavenly to have you at home, and be able to say all these things straight out just once. It makes me feel so much better. May I go on?” “Yes; take your time,” said Martin. “Well, where had I got to? Oh, yes, Wednesday. On Thursday Mr. Wilkins,--he’s the new curate, whom you haven’t seen yet: spectacles, bicycle, and proposes to me every now and then,--Mr. Wilkins on Thursday has something for men only; I don’t know what, but I’m sure it’s dreadful. Friday--girls’ class. And on Saturday a choir practice. A--Choir--Practice. Now, you have been to church here----“ “Rather,” said Martin.