How deeply are our destinies influenced by the mosttrifling causes! Had the unknown builder who erected andowned these new villas contented himself by simplybuilding each within its own grounds, it is probable thatthese three small groups of people would have remainedhardly conscious of each other's existence, and thatthere would have been no opportunity for that action andreaction which is here set forth. But there was a commonlink to bind them together. To single himself out fromall other Norwood builders the landlord had devised andlaid out a common lawn tennis ground, which stretchedbehind the houses with taut-stretched net, greenclose-cropped sward, and widespread whitewashed lines. Hither in search of that hard exercise which is asnecessary as air or food to the English temperament, cameyoung Hay Denver when released from the toil of the City;hither, too, came Dr. Walker and his two fair daughters,Clara and Ida, and hither also, champions of the lawn,came the short-skirted, muscular widow and her athleticnephew. Ere the summer was gone they knew each other inthis quiet nook as they might not have done after yearsof a stiffer and more formal acquaintance.

And especially to the Admiral and the Doctor werethis closer intimacy and companionship of value. Eachhad a void in his life, as every man must have who withunexhausted strength steps out of the great race, buteach by his society might help to fill up that of hisneighbor. It is true that they had not much incommon, but that is sometimes an aid rather than a bar tofriendship. Each had been an enthusiast in hisprofession, and had retained all his interest in it. TheDoctor still read from cover to cover his Lancet andhis Medical Journal, attended all professionalgatherings, worked himself into an alternate state ofexaltation and depression over the results of theelection of officers, and reserved for himself a den ofhis own, in which before rows of little round bottlesfull of glycerine, Canadian balsam, and staining agents,he still cut sections with a microtome, and peepedthrough his long, brass, old-fashioned microscope at thearcana of nature. With his typical face, clean shaven onlip and chin, with a firm mouth, a strong jaw, a steadyeye, and two little white fluffs of whiskers, he couldnever be taken for anything but what he was, a high-classBritish medical consultant of the age of fifty, orperhaps just a year or two older.

The Doctor, in his hey-day, had been cool over greatthings, but now, in his retirement, he was fussy overtrifles. The man who had operated without the quiver ofa finger, when not only his patient's life but his ownreputation and future were at stake, was now shaken tothe soul by a mislaid book or a careless maid. Heremarked it himself, and knew the reason. "When Marywas alive," he would say, "she stood between me and thelittle troubles. I could brace myself for the big ones. My girls are as good as girls can be, but who can know aman as his wife knows him?" Then his memory wouldconjure up a tuft of brown hair and a single white, thinhand over a coverlet, and he would feel, as we have allfelt, that if we do not live and know each other afterdeath, then indeed we are tricked and betrayed by all thehighest hopes and subtlest intuitions of our nature.

The Doctor had his compensations to make up for hisloss. The great scales of Fate had been held on a levelfor him; for where in all great London could one find twosweeter girls, more loving, more intelligent, and moresympathetic than Clara and Ida Walker? So bright werethey, so quick, so interested in all which interestedhim, that if it were possible for a man to be compensatedfor the loss of a good wife then Balthazar Walker mightclaim to be so.

Clara was tall and thin and supple, with a graceful,womanly figure. There was something stately anddistinguished in her carriage, "queenly" her friendscalled her, while her critics described her as reservedand distant.

Such as it was, however, it was part and parcel ofherself, for she was, and had always from herchildhood been, different from any one around her. Therewas nothing gregarious in her nature. She thought withher own mind, saw with her own eyes, acted from her ownimpulse. Her face was pale, striking rather than pretty,but with two great dark eyes, so earnestly questioning,so quick in their transitions from joy to pathos, soswift in their comment upon every word and deed aroundher, that those eyes alone were to many more attractivethan all the beauty of her younger sister. Hers was astrong, quiet soul, and it was her firm hand which hadtaken over the duties of her mother, had ordered thehouse, restrained the servants, comforted her father, andupheld her weaker sister, from the day of that greatmisfortune.

Ida Walker was a hand's breadth smaller than Clara,but was a little fuller in the face and plumper in thefigure. She had light yellow hair, mischievous blue eyeswith the light of humor ever twinkling in their depths,and a large, perfectly formed mouth, with that slightupward curve of the corners which goes with a keenappreciation of fun, suggesting even in repose that alatent smile is ever lurking at the edges of the lips. She was modern to the soles of her dainty littlehigh-heeled shoes, frankly fond of dress and of pleasure,devoted to tennis and to comic opera, delighted with adance, which came her way only too seldom, longingever for some new excitement, and yet behind all thislighter side of her character a thoroughly good,healthy-minded English girl, the life and soul of thehouse, and the idol of her sister and her father. Suchwas the family at number two. A peep into the remainingvilla and our introductions are complete.

Admiral Hay Denver did not belong to the florid,white-haired, hearty school of sea-dogs which is morecommon in works of fiction than in the Navy List. On thecontrary, he was the representative of a much more commontype which is the antithesis of the conventional sailor. He was a thin, hard-featured man, with an ascetic,acquiline cast of face, grizzled and hollow-cheeked,clean-shaven with the exception of the tiniest curvedpromontory of ash-colored whisker. An observer,accustomed to classify men, might have put him down as acanon of the church with a taste for lay costume and acountry life, or as the master of a large public school,who joined his scholars in their outdoor sports. Hislips were firm, his chin prominent, he had a hard, dryeye, and his manner was precise and formal. Forty yearsof stern discipline had made him reserved and silent. Yet, when at his ease with an equal, he could readilyassume a less quarter-deck style, and he had a fund oflittle, dry stories of the world and its ways which wereof interest from one who had seen so many phases oflife. Dry and spare, as lean as a jockey and as tough aswhipcord, he might be seen any day swinging hissilver-headed Malacca cane, and pacing along the suburbanroads with the same measured gait with which he had beenwont to tread the poop of his flagship. He wore a goodservice stripe upon his cheek, for on one side it waspitted and scarred where a spurt of gravel knocked up bya round-shot had struck him thirty years before, when heserved in the Lancaster gun-battery. Yet he was hale andsound, and though he was fifteen years senior to hisfriend the Doctor, he might have passed as the youngerman.

Mrs. Hay Denver's life had been a very broken one,and her record upon land represented a greater amount ofendurance and self-sacrifice than his upon the sea. Theyhad been together for four months after their marriage,and then had come a hiatus of four years, during which hewas flitting about between St. Helena and the Oil Riversin a gunboat. Then came a blessed year of peace anddomesticity, to be followed by nine years, with only athree months' break, five upon the Pacific station, andfour on the East Indian. After that was a respite in theshape of five years in the Channel squadron, withperiodical runs home, and then again he was off to theMediterranean for three years and to Halifax forfour. Now, at last, however, this old married couple,who were still almost strangers to one another, had cometogether in Norwood, where, if their short day had beenchequered and broken, the evening at least promised to besweet and mellow. In person Mrs. Hay Denver was tall andstout, with a bright, round, ruddy-cheeked face stillpretty, with a gracious, matronly comeliness. Her wholelife was a round of devotion and of love, which wasdivided between her husband and her only son, Harold.

This son it was who kept them in the neighborhood ofLondon, for the Admiral was as fond of ships and of saltwater as ever, and was as happy in the sheets of atwo-ton yacht as on the bridge of his sixteen-knotmonitor. Had he been untied, the Devonshire or Hampshirecoast would certainly have been his choice. There wasHarold, however, and Harold's interests were their chiefcare. Harold was four-and-twenty now. Three yearsbefore he had been taken in hand by an acquaintance ofhis father's, the head of a considerable firm ofstock-brokers, and fairly launched upon 'Change. Histhree hundred guinea entrance fee paid, his threesureties of five hundred pounds each found, his nameapproved by the Committee, and all other formalitiescomplied with, he found himself whirling round, aninsignificant unit, in the vortex of the money marketof the world. There, under the guidance of his father'sfriend, he was instructed in the mysteries of bulling andof bearing, in the strange usages of 'Change in theintricacies of carrying over and of transferring. Helearned to know where to place his clients' money, whichof the jobbers would make a price in New Zealands, andwhich would touch nothing but American rails, which mightbe trusted and which shunned. All this, and much more,he mastered, and to such purpose that he soon began toprosper, to retain the clients who had been recommened tohim, and to attract fresh ones. But the work was nevercongenial. He had inherited from his father his love ofthe air of heaven, his affection for a manly and naturalexistence. To act as middleman between the pursuer ofwealth, and the wealth which he pursued, or to stand asa human barometer, registering the rise and fall of thegreat mammon pressure in the markets, was not the workfor which Providence had placed those broad shoulders andstrong limbs upon his well knit frame. His dark openface, too, with his straight Grecian nose, well openedbrown eyes, and round black-curled head, were all thoseof a man who was fashioned for active physical work. Meanwhile he was popular with his fellow brokers,respected by his clients, and beloved at home, but hisspirit was restless within him and his mind chafedunceasingly against his surroundings.

"Do you know, Willy," said Mrs. Hay Denver oneevening as she stood behind her husband's chair, with herhand upon his shoulder, "I think sometimes that Harold isnot quite happy."

"He looks happy, the young rascal," answered theAdmiral, pointing with his cigar. It was after dinner,and through the open French window of the dining-room aclear view was to be had of the tennis court and theplayers. A set had just been finished, and young CharlesWestmacott was hitting up the balls as high as he couldsend them in the middle of the ground. Doctor Walker andMrs. Westmacott were pacing up and down the lawn, thelady waving her racket as she emphasized her remarks, andthe Doctor listening with slanting head and little nodsof agreement. Against the rails at the near end Haroldwas leaning in his flannels talking to the two sisters,who stood listening to him with their long dark shadowsstreaming down the lawn behind them. The girls weredressed alike in dark skirts, with light pink tennisblouses and pink bands on their straw hats, so that asthey stood with the soft red of the setting sun tingingtheir faces, Clara, demure and quiet, Ida, mischievousand daring, it was a group which might have pleasedthe eye of a more exacting critic than the old sailor.

"Yes, he looks happy, mother," he repeated, with achuckle. "It is not so long ago since it was you and Iwho were standing like that, and I don't remember that wewere very unhappy either. It was croquet in our time,and the ladies had not reefed in their skirts quite sotaut. What year would it be? Just before the commissionof the Penelope."

Mrs. Hay Denver ran her fingers through his grizzledhair. "It was when you came back in the Antelope, justbefore you got your step."

"Ah, the old Antelope! What a clipper she was! She could sail two points nearer the wind than anythingof her tonnage in the service. You remember her, mother. You saw her come into Plymouth Bay. Wasn't she abeauty?"

"She was indeed, dear. But when I say that I thinkthat Harold is not happy I mean in his daily life. Hasit never struck you how thoughtful, he is at times, andhow absent-minded?"

"In love perhaps, the young dog. He seems to havefound snug moorings now at any rate."

"I think that it is very likely that you are right,Willy," answered the mother seriously. "But with whichof them?"

"I cannot tell."

"Well, they are very charming girls, both ofthem. But as long as he hangs in the wind betweenthe two it cannot be serious. After all, the boy isfour-and-twenty, and he made five hundred pounds lastyear. He is better able to marry than I was when I waslieutenant."

"I think that we can see which it is now," remarkedthe observant mother. Charles Westmacott had ceased toknock the tennis balls about, and was chatting with ClaraWalker, while Ida and Harold Denver were still talking bythe railing with little outbursts of laughter. Presentlya fresh set was formed, and Doctor Walker, the odd manout, came through the wicket gate and strolled up thegarden walk.

"Good evening, Mrs. Hay Denver," said he, raising hisbroad straw hat. "May I come in?"

"Good evening, Doctor! Pray do!"

"Try one of these," said the Admiral, holding out hiscigar-case. "They are not bad. I got them on theMosquito Coast. I was thinking of signaling to you, butyou seemed so very happy out there."

"Mrs. Westmacott is a very clever woman," said theDoctor, lighting the cigar. "By the way, you spoke aboutthe Mosquito Coast just now. Did you see much of theHyla when you were out there?"

"No such name on the list," answered the seaman,with decision. "There's the Hydra, a harbor defenseturret-ship, but she never leaves the home waters."

The Doctor laughed. "We live in two separateworlds," said he. "The Hyla is the little green treefrog, and Beale has founded some of his views onprotoplasm upon the appearancer, of its nerve cells. Itis a subject in which I take an interest."

"There were vermin of all sorts in the woods. WhenI have been on river service I have heard it at nightlike the engine-room when you are on the measured mile. You can't sleep for the piping, and croaking, andchirping. Great Scott! what a woman that is! She wasacross the lawn in three jumps. She would have made acaptain of the foretop in the old days."

"She is a very remarkable woman.

"A very cranky one."

"A very sensible one in some things," remarked Mrs.Hay Denver.

"Look at that now!" cried the Admiral, with a lungeof his forefinger at the Doctor. "You mark my words,Walker, if we don't look out that woman will raise amutiny with her preaching. Here's my wife disaffectedalready, and your girls will be no better. We mustcombine, man, or there's an end of all discipline."

"No doubt she is a little excessive in her views."said the Doctor, "but in the main I think as she does."

"Bravo, Doctor!" cried the lady.

"What, turned traitor to your sex! We'llcourt-martial you as a deserter."

"She is quite right. The professions are notsufficiently open to women. They are still far too muchcircumscribed in their employments. They are a feeblefolk, the women who have to work for their bread--poor,unorganized, timid, taking as a favor what they mightdemand as a right. That is why their case is not moreconstantly before the public, for if their cry forredress was as great as their grievance it would fill theworld to the exclusion of all others. It is all verywell for us to be courteous to the rich, the refined,those to whom life is already made easy. It is a mereform, a trick of manner. If we are truly courteous, weshall stoop to lift up struggling womanhood when shereally needs our help--when it is life and death to herwhether she has it or not. And then to cant about itbeing unwomanly to work in the higher professions. It iswomanly enough to starve, but unwomanly to use the brainswhich God has given them. Is it not a monstrouscontention?"

The Admiral chuckled. "You are like one of thesephonographs, Walker," said he; "you have had all thistalked into you, and now you are reeling it off again. It's rank mutiny, every word of it, for man has hisduties and woman has hers, but they are as separateas their natures are. I suppose that we shall have awoman hoisting her pennant on the flagship presently, andtaking command of the Channel Squadron."

"Well, you have a woman on the throne taking commandof the whole nation," remarked his wife; "and everybodyis agreed that she does it better than any of the men."

The Admiral was somewhat staggered by thishome-thrust. "That's quite another thing," said he.

"You should come to their next meeting. I am to takethe chair. I have just promised Mrs. Westmacott that Iwill do so. But it has turned chilly, and it is timethat the girls were indoors. Good night! I shall lookout for you after breakfast for our constitutional,Admiral."

The old sailor looked after his friend with a twinklein his eyes.

"How old is he, mother?"

"About fifty, I think."

"And Mrs. Westmacott?"

"I heard that she was forty-three."

The Admiral rubbed his hands, and shook withamusement. "We'll find one of these days that three andtwo make one," said he. I'll bet you a new bonnet on it,mother.