When, therefore, Donald saw Chris walking in the garden, he put on his hat and sauntered out there too. It was on the south side of the house that Chris was walking, and she appeared to be looking at nothing but the sea. As she drew near the east wing, however, she glanced up from time to time shyly at the windows. On hearing footsteps on the path behind her, she turned quickly, and flushed, with an unmistakable expression of disappointment, on coming face to face with Donald. He was taken aback; his vanity was wounded; and instead of addressing her as he had intended, he stepped aside for her to pass him, and followed the path she had been taking towards the east-end of the house. Angry and mortified, he went on as far as the enclosed portion of the grounds. And here, lying on the ground just within the locked gate, he saw an envelope lying on the damp grass. Stooping, and putting his hand through the wire fence, he found that the envelope was just within his reach. Drawing it through, he discovered that it contained a letter, that it was directed to “Miss Christina Abercarne,” and that it was too dry to have lain there long. While he was turning the missive over in his hand, and looking about him, considering from what quarter the letter could have come, Chris bore down upon him with a crimson face and very bright eyes. “That note is for me, is it not?” said she, as she managed to see the superscription. Now Donald was not particularly chivalrous, and he thought it quite fair that he should find some advantage to himself in his discovery. So he said, holding the letter behind him: “What are you going to give me not to tell?” Chris drew herself up haughtily. “I am not going to give you anything, Mr. Shute. But you will have to give me my letter.” “And you won’t mind if I repeat this little anecdote, say, at the dinner-table to-night?” “Not a bit. And you, I dare say, won’t mind what I shall think of you?” It was his turn to blush now. He stammered out that, of course, he was only in fun, and he handed her the letter in the most sheepish and shame-faced manner. Although she took it from him very coolly, to all appearance, a strange thrill went through her as she held it, and knew unfamiliar as the handwriting was, from whom it came. Donald stared at her. For there had flashed over her face a strange look, half gladness, half sorrow, and he felt with jealousy that some other man had roused in her the feeling he would have liked her to have for himself. For a moment she seemed hardly conscious that she was not alone; then recovering herself quickly, she remembered that this wretched youth had the power, if he liked, to increase the misfortunes of a man who was unlucky enough already. So she said, catching her breath, and speaking with a most eloquent moisture in her eyes, and with a tremor in her voice which few male creatures could have resisted: