n made up her mind,
walked out to the County Ground one windy October forenoon, and
discovered Ginger experimenting with grass seed in a shed off the
pavilion.

In this shed she offered herself, while Ginger worked on, attentive but
unresponsive. Perhaps she did not make an offer so much as state a case.
A masterly case, without question; for who can doubt that Stott, however
procrastinating and unwilling to make a definite overture, must already
have had some type of womanhood in his mind; some conception, the seed
of an ideal.

I find a quality of romance in this courageous and unusual wooing of
Ellen Mary's; but more, I find evidences of the remarkable quality of
her intelligence. In other circumstances the name of Ellen Mary Jakes
might have stood for individual achievement; instead of that, she is
remembered as a common woman who _happened_ to be the mother of Victor
Stott. But when the facts are examined, can we say that chance entered?
If ever the birth of a child was deliberately designed by both parents,
it was in the case under consideration. And in what a strange setting
was the inception first displayed.

Ellen Mary, a gaunt, tall, somewhat untidy woman, stood at the narrow
door of the little shed off the Ailesworth pavilion; with one hand,
shoulder-high, she steadied herself against the door frame, with the
other she continually pushed forward the rusty bonnet which had been
loosened during her walk by the equinoctial gale that now tore at the
door of the shed, and necessitated the employment of a wary foot to keep
the door from slamming. With all these distractions she still made good
her case, though she had to raise her voice above the multitudinous
sounds of the wind, and though she had to address the unresponsive
shoulders of a man who bent over shallow trays of earth set on a trestle
table under the small and dirty window. It is heroic, but she had her
reward in full measure. Presently her voice ceased, and she waited in
silence for the answer that should decide her destiny. There was an
interval broken only by the tireless passion of the wind, and then
Ginger Stott, the best-known man in England, looked up and stared
through the incrusted pane of glass before him at the dim vision of
stooping grass and swaying hedge. Unconsciously his hand strayed to his
pockets, and then he said in a low, thoughtful voice: "Well! I dunno why
not."

II

Dr. O'Connell's face was white and drawn, and the redne