t, Desire?"

"I--why, Uncle Ben--I've promised to marry Arnold Ackroyd!"

"Well, well," I said inadequately, "this is news!"

Desire nodded wistfully.

"It seems a little curious, does n't it? We're not a bit alike," she
said. "But he is splendid! I'm sure I shall never meet a finer man,
nor one I trust more."

"Very true, Desire, and I am glad you are going to marry such a man,"
I observed, arising slowly to the occasion and to my feet, and
offering a congratulatory hand.

"Mother says it's a wonderful {62} thought for a young woman that her
future is as secure as the cycle of the seasons," returned Desire,
with her hand in mine, "and I suppose it is, but that is n't why I
love him. Uncle Ben, he's really wonderful when you find out what he's
thinking behind those quiet eyes. And then--do you know he's one of the
few really meritorious persons I ever made like me. I've been afraid
there was something queer about me, for freaks always take to me at
once. But if Arnold Ackroyd likes me, I _must_ be all right, mustn't
I? It's such a relief to be sure of it!"

I took this for a touch of flippancy, having forgotten how long the
young must grope and wonder, hopelessly, before they find and realize
themselves. It was, I think, precisely because Arnold Ackroyd helped
that vibrant temperament to feel itself resting on {63} solid ground
that he became so easily paramount in Desire's life at this time.
However it may have been afterward, during their brief engagement he
was all things to my niece, while she to him was a creature of
enchantment. I shall always maintain that they knew young love at its
best.

Desire was wedded with more pomp and circumstance than Lucretia and I
really cared for. That was her Aunt Greening's affair. Mary Greening
always did like an effect of pageantry, and was willing to pay for it.
They went abroad afterwards, and I remember as significant that Desire
enjoyed the Musee de Cluny more than the lectures they heard at the
Sorbonne. On their return they lived in dignity and comfort. They had
a couple of pretty, unusual-looking children, who were provided with a
French nurse at {64} twenty months, and other educational conveniences
in due season, more in accordance with the standards of Grandmamma
Ackroyd than with the demands of the Withacres and Raynies.

They were certainly as happy as most people. If Desire had any
ungratified wishes, I never heard of them. I dined with them
frequently, b