and his son in his affections.

"I know Funchal," said the lady carelessly. "A couple of years ago I had
a seven-ton cutter-rigged yacht, the Banshee, and we ran over to Madeira
from Falmouth."

"You ma'am, in a seven-tonner?"

"With a couple of Cornish lads for a crew. Oh, it was glorious! A
fortnight right out in the open, with no worries, no letters, no
callers, no petty thoughts, nothing but the grand works of God, the
tossing sea and the great silent sky. They talk of riding, indeed, I am
fond of horses, too, but what is there to compare with the swoop of a
little craft as she pitches down the long steep side of a wave, and then
the quiver and spring as she is tossed upwards again? Oh, if our souls
could transmigrate I'd be a seamew above all birds that fly! But I keep
you, Admiral. Adieu!"

The old sailor was too transported with sympathy to say a word. He could
only shake her broad muscular hand. She was half-way down the garden
path before she heard him calling her, and saw his grizzled head and
weather-stained face looking out from behind the curtains.

"You may put me down for the platform," he cried, and vanished abashed
behind the curtain of his Times, where his wife found him at lunch time.

"I hear that you have had quite a long chat with Mrs. Westmacott," said
she.

"Yes, and I think that she is one of the most sensible women that I ever
knew."

"Except on the woman's rights question, of course."

"Oh, I don't know. She had a good deal to say for herself on that also.
In fact, mother, I have taken a platform ticket for her meeting."

CHAPTER VI. AN OLD STORY.

But this was not to be the only eventful conversation which Mrs.
Westmacott held that day, nor was the Admiral the only person in the
Wilderness who was destined to find his opinions considerably
changed. Two neighboring families, the Winslows from Anerley, and
the Cumberbatches from Gipsy Hill, had been invited to tennis by Mrs.
Westmacott, and the lawn was gay in the evening with the blazers of
the young men and the bright dresses of the girls. To the older people,
sitting round in their wicker-work garden chairs, the darting, stooping,
springing white figures, the sweep of skirts, and twinkle of canvas
shoes, the click of the rackets and sharp whiz of the balls, with the
continual "fifteen love--fifteen all!" of the marker, made up a merry
and exhilarating scene. To see their sons and daughters so flushed and
healthy and hap