When the girls crowded into the room for tea, his greeting and Mabel’s consisted of a mere clasp of the hand on either side with no words spoken at all. But Mabel felt suddenly as though she could face the world. Was it strength he had given her by the mere touch of his hand? She could not raise her eyes to let him or anybody else see what was written there. The deadlock puzzled the triumphant Elma. Miss Grace comforted her a little. "These things always come right--sooner or later." These two good friends had not the firmness to probe that remark further, though Elma was dying to ask about Dr. Merryweather. "I’d like to help them," said Elma instead, "but I should feel like the ’tactful woman’ that Mr. Maclean was laughing at. He says that when tactful women write novels they are always making people drop handkerchiefs in order to help the heroine, or having a friend outside or something of that sort at the right moment. It made me feel so silly over sending the invitation to Mr. Symington. Especially," continued she sadly, "since he doesn’t seem to be making much use of it. It’s very enervating to be tactful, especially when your tact doesn’t come off." Miss Grace looked at her long and kindly. "Don’t bury your sympathies in the cause of others too much, dear," she said. "With some of us, with you and me for instance, it might become more of a weakness perhaps than a real virtue." Elma immediately thought, "There is something in what Isobel said after all." Instead of giving voice to it, she said, "I have bothered about Mabs, I know. But then, I haven’t any affairs of my own, you see." "Oh, dear child, never be sure, never be too sure about that," said Miss Grace. A delightful feeling stole over Elma. Could it be possible that anything exciting could ever happen to herself. But no--how could it? "I think it’s papa always telling us no woman ought to be married until she’s twenty-three that de--demoralizes me so," she said. "And lately, since Mabs is nearly that age, he is actually running it on to twenty-five." "Yes, but they never really mean it," said Miss Grace. "Well, one thing I intend to see to is that Mr. Symington takes Mabel out of church after the wedding. Sarah wants him. And Sarah is not going to have him." "I think you are quite right there," said Miss Grace. Elma got hold of Mr. Symington herself. "I want you to do me a great favour," she said. "I want you to escort Mabel on Tuesday." "It isn’t a favour," he said. He pulled his big shoulders together and looked magnificent. He was browned and tanned with the sun. Only a slight frown between the eyes to be cleared away and then he would be the old Mr. Symington. "Well, please do it like this. Ask Mabel if you may." "Now?" asked Mr. Symington. "If you like," said Elma. They were on the lawn after dinner, and Mr. Symington in two days had hardly had a glimpse of Mabel, far less any conversation with her. She was talking to Isobel.