It was not so dark that the girl, who had halted a couple of yards away, could fail to see the smile accompanying the words. Symington’s was by no means an ill-looking countenance, though forty years, half of them strenuous after a fashion, had blurred the fineness of the well-shaped features; it would have been attractive, admirable even, but for something in the eyes, something about the mouth, under the nicely trimmed tawny moustache, that is not to be fully described by the word covetous. His was a face that no wise man would regard without doubts, that no wise woman would trust. Symington was tall and broad-shouldered, but in the light of day he had a softish look, and one imagined him as a “fat man” in the years soon to come. He was no hard-working farmer. White Farm had come to him for lack of a worthier and fitter heir, his two brothers having died not long before his father, and there were honest people in the neighbourhood who would tell you that the good old property was already on the road to ruin. Symington’s record was that of a man who had seen a good deal of life in different parts of the world, and learned little worth knowing, who had frequently touched the skirts of Fortune but never captured her, and who had gambled away more hours than he had toiled. And now, at forty, he was probably nearer to Fortune than he had ever been, and certainly nearer to love, as he understood it. For in Kitty Carstairs he had nothing to gain but youthful sweetness and fresh beauty; indeed, in a material sense, the possession of her was going to cost him dear—if he kept his bond with the contemptible John Corrie. “Aren’t you going to shake hands?” he asked again. “Please open the gate,” said Kitty, “or I must go home another way.” “It’s a lovely night, and your aunt knows I’m looking after you. I want to have a talk with you, Kitty.” She sighed. “I’m very tired—too tired to listen to any one. Please let me go.” “I won’t keep you long, and we can find a nice dry seat in the wood, since you’re so tired. Come, you needn’t be shy with me, Kitty—” “Are you going to open the gate?” she coldly asked. “Immediately, if you’ll promise—” He turned sharply. Some one had come out of the little wood, and was crossing the road. “Is that you, Miss?” “Oh, Sam!” cried the girl in a gasp of relief. “Can ye no’ get the gate open?” the postman inquired, as though no Symington had been there. He came forward and laid a hand on the bolt. “What the blazes do you want?” blurted Symington, suddenly erect. “I’m thinking Miss Carstairs is due home by now,” Sam said coolly. “What do ye say, Miss?” “Miss Carstairs is in my charge, you interfering fool!” “No, no, Sam; I’m not!—and I want to get home at once.” “Kindly stand aside, Mr. Symington,” said the postman.