Sometimes at a thing that John would say, they would look at each other and smile. It had reminded them of something far back in the years of which neither John nor Jill knew anything. And in this again, they were like children, upon whose faces one may sometimes trace a distant look of memory--a look that is very marvellous and very wise--as though they were gazing back into the heart of Time from which the hand of destiny has brought them. Yet it was not only this--this charm of wonderful simplicity--but that whenever Jill looked up, she found their eyes resting tenderly on her. It seemed--she did not understand why just then--as though they were trying mutely to tell her how fond of her they were. Then, when the old gentleman handed her her cup of tea, she recognised from the description, the china of blue and white and turned with a smile to John. "Aren’t these the cups?" she asked gently. He nodded his head and tried to smile, too. The old lady watched those smiles. Her eyes never left them for a moment. "I’ve been told about these cups," Jill explained to the others. "Your son told me one day when--when he was giving me a description of where you lived." "That’s the real Chinese cobalt," said the old gentleman. "John told you that of course." "Well--no--they were not described in detail--at least----" suddenly she found the blood mounting to her cheeks. "I--I knew that they had no handles." Why did she blush? The little old lady had not failed to see that sudden flame of colour. Why did she blush? Something she had remembered? Something that John had said? She looked quickly at her son. His eyes were bent on Jill. Oh, yes, they loved. There was no fear of her mistaking that. There was a secret between them; a secret that had set free a flood of colour to Jill’s cheeks, that had brought a look of fixed intent into John’s eyes. What other could such secret be between a boy and girl, than love? No one can keep it; but it is the greatest secret in the world. Before the tea was over, they had betrayed it in a thousand different ways to the sharp, bright eyes of the little old white-haired lady. When vying with John to do honour to their guest, the old gentleman persuaded Jill to take from the plate he proffered, then she bent her head and smiled to see her husband’s pride and poor John’s discomfiture. "She loves him! She loves him!" she whispered in her heart. "She is the very woman for my John!" "A charming little girl," whispered the old man’s vanity, as he proudly bore the plate back to the table. "Exactly the woman I would have chosen for John myself." And John was disconsolately wondering why, if she loved him, Jill had so patently refused his offering. Why had she refused? The little old white-haired lady knew that. She wanted to please his father, because she loved John. That was their secret. How it affected the blue and white china, she could not guess; but that was their secret--they loved.