It was a picture of the sea seen through the branches of trees with one little white sail in the distance. The blood rushed to her cheeks, and her heart began to beat violently; it was, she thought, just such a view of the sea as could be got from the windows of the east wing at Wyngham House, between the bushy boughs of the American oaks and the ragged trunks of the fir trees. So much attracted was she that on the following day she came by herself to look at the sketch; and on the third day, being again by herself, she entered the shop and asked the name of the artist and the price of the picture. The price was a modest half-guinea, which Chris, resolved to do without a new summer hat, promptly paid. As for the artist’s name, there was a difficulty. The man in the shop did not know it. All he could tell was that the picture was the work of a young man who often brought them sketches, some of which they bought, some of which they rejected. He would probably turn up again in the course of a day or two, with some more work; and if the young lady wished to see any more of his drawings, they would no doubt have some to show her shortly. Chris, full of vague imaginings, called again at the end of a week. They showed her some more sketches which they said were the work of the same artist, and again she was struck with a certain sentiment in the pictures which seemed to her fanciful young mind to express her own feelings about the objects they represented. But the subjects, chiefly of sea and sky, did not arouse in her the same feeling of recognition as the first one had done. “Perhaps you don’t care so much about the sea-pieces without a peep of landscape,” suggested the dealer, noticing a slight look of disappointment on his customer’s face. “But we shall have some more attractive ones in a day or two, I dare say. The young fellow has gone down to the country, and I’ve given him a commission.” “What part of the country?” asked Chris, feeling that she was blushing. “A place called Wyngham, on the south coast, not far from Dover.” Chris felt giddy with a shock which was not all a surprise. She hardly knew how she got out of the shop, nor how she reached the house of her friends. But she told them that she must go back to her mother the very next day; and the two ladies with whom she was staying, not without a little mischievous laughter at the girl’s expense, and some malicious suggestions which showed them to be not without penetration, let her go. As the train bore her back to Wyngham, Chris seemed to be in a dream. The hope which had so long lain dormant in her heart had now sprung up into vivid life. She knew that her lover was alive.