He made elaborate signs to her with his eyebrows, and motions recommending precaution with his lips--confounding Anne completely. For poor Charley had heavy eyebrows, and thick lips, and his gestures were not graceful. She stared at him in unfeigned astonishment, and then, amused as well as bewildered, laughed. He enjoyed it all, though he pretended to be disconcerted. She looked as bright as ever, he said to himself. There was no appearance of trouble about her, or of longing uncertainty. She laughed just as of old, with that pleasant ring in the laughter which had always charmed him. The temptation crossed the curate’s mind, as she did not seem to want it, as she looked so much like her old self, as she showed no perception of what he had for her, to put the letter down a little deeper in his pocket, and not disturb her calm at all. ‘Oh yes,’ he said, as if he had suddenly recollected, ‘it was something I wanted to show you. Come down this path a little. You seem to be enjoying the party, Anne.’ ‘Yes, well enough. It is pretty,’ she said, glancing over the pretty lawns covered with gaily-dressed groups. ‘Are _you_ not enjoying yourself? I am so sorry. But you know everybody, or almost everybody here.’ ‘Except your grand people,’ he said, with some malice. ‘My grand people! They are all nice whether they are grand or not, and the old lady is very funny. She has all kinds of strange old ornaments and crosses and charms mixed together. What is it, Charley? you are looking so serious, and I must go back as soon as I am able. Tell me what it is.’ ‘Can’t you divine what it is?’ he said, with an air half reproachful, half triumphant. She looked at him astonished; and then, suddenly taking fire from his look, her face kindled into colour and expectation and wondering eagerness. Poor curate! he had been pleased with her slowness to perceive, but he was not so pleased now when her whole countenance lighted under his eyes. He in his own person could never have brought any such light into her face. She opened her mouth as if to speak, then stood eager, facing him with the words arrested on her very lips. ‘Is it a message from----’ She paused, and a wave of scarlet came over her face up to her hair. Poor Charley Ashley! There was no want of the power to divine now. His little pleasant spitefulness, and his elation over what he considered her indifference, died in the twinkling of an eye. ‘It is more than a message,’ he said, thinking what an ass he was to doubt her, and what a traitor to be delighted by that doubt. ‘It is--a letter, Anne.’ She did not say anything--the colour grew deeper and deeper upon her face, the breath came quickly from her parted lips, and without a word she put out her hand.