ubts, with all manner of uncertainties
about your course'----

She hesitated, watching his face.

'You think I have chosen well?' said Godwin, meeting her look.

Sidwell's eyes were at once averted.

'I hope,' she said, 'we may talk of that again very soon. You have told
me much of yourself, but I have said little or nothing of my
own--difficulties. It won't be long before we come back from London,
and then'----

Once more their eyes met steadily.

'You think,' Godwin asked, 'that I am right in aiming at a life of
retirement?'

'It is one of my doubts. Your influence would be useful anywhere; but
most useful, surely, among people of active mind.'

'Perhaps I shan't be able to choose. Remember that I am seeking for a
livelihood as well as for a sphere of usefulness.'

His eyes fell as he spoke. Hitherto he had had no means of learning
whether Sidwell would bring her husband a dowry substantial enough to
be considered. Though he could not feel that she had betrothed herself
to him, their talk was so nearly that of avowed lovers that perchance
she would disclose whatever might help to put his mind at rest. The
thought revived his painful self-consciousness; it was that of a
schemer, yet would not the curse of poverty have suggested it to any
man?

'Perhaps you won't be able to choose--at first,' Sidwell assented,
thereby seeming to answer his unspoken question. 'But I am sure my
father will use whatever influence he has.'

Had he been seated near enough, he would have been tempted to the
boldness of taking her hand. What more encouragement did he await? But
the distance between them was enough to check his embarrassed impulses.
He could not even call her 'Sidwell'; it would have been easier a few
minutes ago, before she had begun to speak with such calm friendliness.
Now, in spite of everything, he felt that to dare such a familiarity
must needs call upon him the reproof of astonished eyes.

'You return to-morrow?' he asked, suddenly.

'I think so. You have promised me to be cheerful until we are home
again.'

'A promise to be cheerful wouldn't mean much. But it _does_ mean much
that I can think of what you have said to-day.'

Sidwell did not speak, and her silence seemed to compel him to rise. It
was strange how remote he still felt from her pure, grave face, and the
flowing outlines of her figure. Why could he not say to her, 'I love
you; give me your hands; give me your lips'? Such words seemed
impo