Ruby blushed hotly to herself, and then tossed her head. She was not to be won without due wooing, and after all was she, in any event, to be won by this man? She knew nothing of him except that he was a reservist with a small pension, and that he was a postman--a village postman. Was it likely that a girl of her education and position would throw herself away on a fellow like that--even if he had a kindly face, and a nice way of looking at one, and hair the colour of a copper tea-kettle? Besides, he should know better than to approach her with so light a spirit. The next day when Postman Chris came swinging along the Branston road the schoolhouse porch was empty, the door bolted and barred. For a full moment he stood gazing towards it, and Ruby, peering cautiously out at him from behind the sheltering blackboard, saw his expression change from the eager tenderness which had for the fraction of a second almost made her wish that she were indeed standing in the porch, to one of hurt and proud surprise. He wheeled about without delay, and the sound of his steps fell like a knell upon her heart. Acting upon an unaccountable impulse she flung open the door and darted to the gate, but Postman Chris never turned his head. On the next day she again watched from behind the blackboard, and saw the postman march past, without so much as a glance either to right or to left. On the day after, strange to relate, Miss Ruby Damory, the schoolmistress, happened to be correcting exercises in the porch when the postman from Chudbury-Marshall walked by; but Postman Chris never caught sight of the schoolmistress. He was whistling as he walked, and held a little cane in his hand with which he switched at the hedge. When he passed the school-gate he tapped it with his cane, and subsequently drew it along the railings which bordered the yard; but he never turned his head. There was no afternoon post on Sunday, but Postman Chris was at Evening Church, and there Ruby saw him with the light of the stained-glass window falling on his uncovered head and making a very nimbus of his hair. When Monday afternoon came she was standing, not in the school-porch but at the gate, and when Postman Chris drew near she accosted him in a small voice which did not sound like hers. Indeed, she felt at the time as though it were not she herself who was thus laying aside maidenly dignity, but some wicked little spirit within her, who acted for her against her will. “Good-day, postman,” said Ruby, or the demon within her. Postman Chris brought his heels together and saluted--not having yet learnt to lay aside this habit--but his face wore an expression of surprise. “Have you got a letter for me, to-day?” went on the voice. “Name?” said Chris succinctly. “Miss Ruby Damory,” came the hurried answer. The postman shook his head.