"I think I _am_ ungrateful, only you don't notice it, because I am not more so than most, and perhaps less than a good many. Everybody has flashes of self-revelation, don't you think, when one sees oneself and the whole world in the true proportions and not as in every-day life. I have just had such a revelation. I was feeling rather annoyed that Captain Stafford should have forgotten the tournament and so make me late; and then you said something about him--you spoke as though he were ill--and the sickening thought flashed through my mind: suppose you--or some one I loved--were taken from me--died? Then things slipped into their right size. The petty woes and grievances which so constantly irritate me became petty. I didn't care in the least about the tennis--I thanked God for you and for your love." He saw that she was strangely moved. Her voice had a rough, dry sound which he had not heard before, and her brows were knitted in a plucky effort to keep back the tears that some inward pain had driven to her eyes. "I didn't mean to frighten you, Lois," he said remorsefully. "How was I to know that you were so easily alarmed?" She pressed his arm with warm affection. "There is nothing to be regretted," she said. "I ought to be glad that a little thing can stir me--some people need catastrophe. If it had not been for that sudden fear, I might have been bad-tempered and spoiled the day for myself and every one." "And then you would have had to add it to the long list of days which haunt us in later life," he added almost to himself, "--one of the occasions for happiness which we have wilfully defaced. But there, I think I hear some one coming. It is probably Stafford. Won't you run and meet him?" She drew her hand quickly from his arm as though in answer to his suggestion, then hesitated and shook her head. "I think I will wait here with you," she said, looking up at him.