e hall-porter at once handed him a
note, left by special messenger, ten minutes earlier. It was marked
"urgent." The handwriting was Christobel's.

The Boy flung away his cigarette, tore the note open, and turned to a
light. It was very short and clear.

"_Boy dear,--I must see you at once. You will find me in the garden._

"_Christobel._"

* * * * *

When the Boy had turned the corner and disappeared, Miss Charteris
passed through the little postern gate, and moved slowly up the lawn.
Ah, how different to her sad return from that gate an hour before!

The William Allen Richardsons still opened their golden hearts to the
sunset. The jolly little "what-d'-you-call-'ems" still lifted their
purple faces to the sky. But instead of stabbing her with agony, they
sang a fragrant psalm of love.

Ah, why was the Boy so dear? Why was the Boy so near? She had watched
him go striding down the lane, yet he still walked beside her; his gay
young laugh of glad content was in her ears; his pure young kisses on
her brow and eyes; his head against her knee.

Just as she reached the mulberry, Jenkins hastened from the house. The
note he brought, in a familiar handwriting, thin and pointed, was
marked "urgent" in one corner, and "immediate" in the other; but Miss
Ann's notes usually were one or other. This happened to be both.

"You need not wait, Jenkins," she said.

She stood close to a spreading branch of the mulberry. Her tall head
was up among the moving leaves. Whispering, they caressed her.
Something withheld her from entering the soft shade, sacred to herself
and the Boy. She stood, to read Ann Harvey's letter.

As she read, every vestige of colour left her face. Bending over the
letter, she might have been a sorely troubled and perplexed replica of
the noble Venus of Milo.

Folding the letter, she went slowly up the lawn, still wearing that
white look of cold dismay. She spoke to Martha through the open
window, keeping her face out of sight.

"Martha," she said, "I am obliged to go immediately to Miss Ann. If I
am not back by eight o'clock, I shall be remaining with her for
dinner." She passed on, and Martha turned to Jenkins.

By the way, Jenkins was having an unusually festive time. During the
last twenty-four hours, Martha had been kinder to him than he had ever
known her to be. He was now comfortably ensconced in the Windsor
armchair in a corner of the kitchen, re