She had been wandering along the edge of her domain in a state of restlessness which had driven her from the monotony of the house when she heard the barking of the big Newfoundland dog which Zephas had lately bought for protection and company. She looked up and saw the boat and its solitary rower at the landing. She ran quickly to the house to bring the packet. As she entered she started back in amazement. For the sitting-room was already in possession of a woman who was seated calmly by the table. The stranger turned on Mrs. Bunker that frankly insolent glance and deliberate examination which only one woman can give another. In that glance Mrs. Bunker felt herself in the presence of a superior, even if her own eyes had not told her that in beauty, attire, and bearing the intruder was of a type and condition far beyond her own, or even that of any she had known. It was the more crushing that there also seemed to be in this haughty woman the same incongruousness and sharp contrast to the plain and homely surroundings of the cottage that she remembered in HIM. “Yo' aw Mrs. Bunker, I believe,” she said in languid Southern accents. “How de doh?” “I am Mrs. Bunker,” said Mrs. Bunker shortly. “And so this is where Cunnle Marion stopped when he waited fo' the boat to take him off,” said the stranger, glancing lazily around, and delaying with smiling insolence the explanation she knew Mrs. Bunker was expecting. “The cunnle said it was a pooh enough place, but I don't see it. I reckon, however, he was too worried to judge and glad enough to get off. Yo' ought to have made him talk--he generally don't want much prompting to talk to women, if they're pooty.” “He didn't seem in a hurry to go,” said Mrs. Bunker indignantly. The next moment she saw her error, even before the cruel, handsome smile of her unbidden guest revealed it. “I thought so,” she said lazily; “this IS the place and here's where the cunnle stayed. Only yo' oughtn't have given him and yo'self away to the first stranger quite so easy. The cunnle might have taught yo' THAT the two or three hours he was with yo'.” “What do you want with me?” demanded Mrs. Bunker angrily. “I want a letter yo' have for me from Cunnle Marion.” “I have nothing for you,” said Mrs. Bunker. “I don't know who you are.” “You ought to, considering you've been acting as messenger between the cunnle and me,” said the lady coolly. “That's not true,” said Mrs. Bunker hotly, to combat an inward sinking. The lady rose with a lazy, languid grace, walked to the door and called still lazily, “O Pedro!” The solitary rower clambered up the rocks and appeared on the cottage threshold. “Is this the lady who gave you the letters for me and to whom you took mine?” “Si, senora.” “They were addressed to a Mr. Kirby,” said Mrs. Bunker sullenly. “How was I to know they were for Mrs. Kirby?”