e had
arrived with the Dales. Then he inquired about her son's arrival, and
went away thinking what a simple matter a love affair was to some people.
Lois and that young man! Why, things were really arranged for them; they
had almost no responsibility in the matter; their engagement settled
itself, as it were.

He walked abstractedly towards his house, wrestling with the old puzzle.
Nothing helped him, or threw light on his uncertainty; he was tired of
juggling with fate, and was growing desperate.

"I wish they would settle it between themselves," he murmured, with a
wistful wrinkle on his forehead. Suddenly a thought struck him; there was
certainly one way out of his difficulties: he could ask advice. He could
lay the whole matter frankly before some dispassionate person, whose
judgment should determine his course. Why had he not thought of it
before! Mr. Denner's face brightened; he walked gayly along, and began
to hum to himself:--

"Oh, wert thou, love, but near me,
But near, near, near me,
How fondly wouldst thou cheer me"--

Here he stopped abruptly. Whom should he ask? He went carefully through
his list of friends, as he trudged along the muddy road.

Not Dr. Howe: he did not take a serious enough view of such things; Mr.
Denner recalled that scene in his office, and his little face burned.
Then, there was Mrs. Dale: she was a woman, and of course she would know
the real merit of each of the sisters. Stay: Mrs. Dale did not always
seem in sympathy with the Misses Woodhouse; he had even heard her say
things which were not, perhaps, perfectly courteous; that the sisters had
been able to defend themselves, Mr. Denner overlooked. Colonel Drayton:
well, a man with the gout is not the confidant for a lover. He was
beginning to look depressed again, when the light came. Henry Dale! No
one could be better.

Mr. Denner awaited the evening with impatience. He would walk home with
the Dales, he thought, and then he and Henry could talk it all over, down
in the study.

He was glad when the cool spring night began to close, full of that
indefinable fragrance of fresh earth and growing things, and before it
was time to start he cheered himself by a little music. He went into the
dreary, unused parlor, and pulling up the green Venetian blinds, which
rattled like castanets, he pushed back the ivy-fastened shutters, and sat
down by the open window; then, with his chin resting upon his fiddle, and
one foot in