It was just three days after the Doctor and the Admiral had

congratulated each other upon the closer tie which was to unite their

two families, and to turn their friendship into something even dearer

and more intimate, that Miss Ida Walker received a letter which caused

her some surprise and considerable amusement. It was dated from next

door, and was handed in by the red-headed page after breakfast.

"Dear Miss Ida," began this curious document, and then relapsed suddenly

into the third person. "Mr. Charles Westmacott hopes that he may have

the extreme pleasure of a ride with Miss Ida Walker upon his tandem

tricycle. Mr. Charles Westmacott will bring it round in half an hour.

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You in front. Yours very truly, Charles Westmacott." The whole was

written in a large, loose-jointed, and school-boyish hand, very thin on

the up strokes and thick on the down, as though care and pains had gone

to the fashioning of it.

Strange as was the form, the meaning was clear enough; so Ida hastened

to her room, and had hardly slipped on her light grey cycling dress when

she saw the tandem with its large occupant at the door. He handed her up

to her saddle with a more solemn and thoughtful face than was usual

with him, and a few moments later they were flying along the beautiful,

smooth suburban roads in the direction of Forest Hill. The great limbs

of the athlete made the heavy machine spring and quiver with every

stroke; while the mignon grey figure with the laughing face, and the

golden curls blowing from under the little pink-banded straw hat, simply

held firmly to her perch, and let the treadles whirl round beneath her

feet. Mile after mile they flew, the wind beating in her face, the trees

dancing past in two long ranks on either side, until they had passed

round Croydon and were approaching Norwood once more from the further

side.

"Aren't you tired?" she asked, glancing over her shoulder and turning

towards him a little pink ear, a fluffy golden curl, and one blue eye

twinkling from the very corner of its lid.

"Not a bit. I am just getting my swing."

"Isn't it wonderful to be strong? You always remind me of a

steamengine."

"Why a steamengine?"

"Well, because it is so powerful, and reliable, and unreasoning. Well, I

didn't mean that last, you know, but--but--you know what I mean. What is

the matter with you?"

"Why?"

"Because you have something on your mind. You have not laughed once."

He broke into a gruesome laugh. "I am quite jolly," said he.

"Oh, no, you are not. And why did you write me such a dreadfully stiff

letter?"

"There now," he cried, "I was sure it was stiff. I said it was absurdly

stiff."




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