The former mode of procedure was now changed. Ruby locked up the schoolhouse every day after lesson-time and Postman Chris regularly overtook her on the way home. By mutual consent they avoided the painful subject of the letter and conversed on indifferent topics; and more than once when Chris walked away he muttered to himself: “She be the prettiest, and she be the wittiest, and she be--ah, ’tis a dalled pity I weren’t on the field first.” One day when the well-known step came up behind Ruby it was accompanied by a shout:-- “Hi!” cried Postman Chris; “hi! Miss Damory! I’ve a-got summat for ye at last.” Ruby turned towards him without any very great elation, for, if truth be told, a letter from her only correspondent had never caused her heart to beat one tittle faster than its wont. But as Chris came up with an excited face she felt she could do no less than simulate great delight at his news. “At last!” cried she, holding out her hand for the letter. But Chris did not deliver it up at once. He looked up the road and down the road--it was indeed little more than a lane, and at that hour solitary enough; there was a strange flash in his eye. “This’ll be the end of all between you and me, I suppose?” said he. “Ye’ll have got your letter, and ye’ll not care for seein’ me come no more. I’ve a mind to make you pay for it.” Ruby’s extended hand dropped by her side, and she started back. “Here’s a Fine Thing,” said Postman Chris, still with that gleam in his eye as he held up the letter. “Here’s a Fine Thing and a very Fine Thing; what’s the owner of Fine Thing to do?” “What do you mean?” whispered Ruby. “’Tis your turn to pay the forfeit now!” cried he. “I’ve bowed to the wittiest and knelt to the prettiest; I’d have finished the job if you’d ha’ let me. ’Tis your turn, I say; I’ll let you off all but the last.” “I don’t know what you take me for, Chris Ryves,” cried Ruby tremulously. “I think you should be ashamed of yourself. You ought to know enough of me by this time to see that I’m not that kind of girl.” “Well, I be that kind o’ man,” returned Chris obstinately. “This here’s the end--this here’s my last chance. If you want your precious letter, you must pay for it.” “How dare you?” cried Ruby, turning as white as a sheet. “You are very much mistaken, Mr. Ryves. I’d rather die--than--than----” “Than have anything to say to me,” he interrupted fiercely. “Oh, I know that very well, Miss Damory; you’re not for the likes o’ me, as you did show me plain enough at the beginning of our acquaintance. But a chap isn’t so very bad if he does ask for a crumb before the whole loaf is handed over to another man. Give me one, Ruby--just one!” Ruby backed away from him against the hedge. “This is an insult,” she cried. “An insult!” he repeated, suddenly sobered. “Oh, if you look on it that way. There’s your letter,” he went on, dropping his voice. “There’s your letter, Miss Damory; I hope it’ll give ye every joy and satisfaction.”