Burton spread his papers over the table, looked to pens and pencils, lighted a cigarette, thrust his hands in his pockets, and, tilting backward in the kitchen chair, surveyed the scene contentedly. Above him the contorted branches of the Daphne-tree spread out and upward, making a leafy canopy through which the morning sunlight dripped in great, golden globules. Birds were singing happily in the garden and in the dense oaks that lined the wide street beyond. To his right was the old brick wall; before him ran the iron fence through which yellow and crimson and white climbing roses thrust their cool green leaves and dew-sprinkled blossoms. Beyond was the Enchanted Garden. Straight before him ran a narrow, red-gravel walk, box-walled and flower-draped, to the back door of the Castle. Burton smiled; he was highly pleased with his generalship. Yesterday’s position was commanding, but to-day’s was impregnable! He took up a sketch-book and idly turned its leaves, scanning the bold pencil-strokes that reproduced pillar and pediment, cornice and gable, with appreciative eyes. Yet he was not so much absorbed but that he heard the sound of an opening door. Keeping his head bent over his book, he looked towards the Castle. On the steps stood the girl. She wore the same white muslin gown with the lavender ribbon and carried the same basket. And, as yesterday, she stood, lithe and graceful, on the top step and surveyed the riot of color before her. Yet, ere she stepped down to the gravel, she raised her eyes in a fleeting glance towards a certain window in the other house. Burton chuckled. [Illustration] [Illustration] “Ah, Kitty,” he murmured, “you’re only human, after all!” She took the farther path, a choice he applauded silently, since she would not discover him until she turned at the bottom of the garden, when flight with dignity would be out of the question. Now and then he caught fleeting glimpses of her hat above the bushes as she moved along and heard the clipping of the scissors. As she neared the corner he dipped pen in ink and wrote industriously: “BELLE HARBOUR, VIRGINIA, June 3. “She’s coming; she’s almost in sight. I don’t quite know what I am writing. The situation grows intense. Will she retreat or advance? I can see the white of her gown through the leaves. She is almost at the corner of the path. My courage is ebbing fast; if she delays much longer, I shall beat a disordered retreat myself. Now! She’s coming, coming, coming--she’s here....” The girl came around the corner. [Illustration]