urious. He will
think I have failed him and he will go away hot with anger against me.
If I could only send a word of explanation I know he would not leave me.
But there seems to be no way at all--though I have heard that there's
always a way when there's a will. Oh, I shall go mad! If the window
were not so high I would jump out of it. But to break my legs or my neck
would not mend the matter.'

"The afternoon passed on. At sunset Ursula heard hoof-beats and ran to
the window. Andrew Kinnear of The Springs was tying his horse at the
door. He was a dashing young fellow, and a political crony of old Hugh.
No doubt he would be at the dance that night. Oh, if she could get
speech for but a moment with him!

"When he had gone into the house, Ursula, turning impatiently from the
window, tripped and almost fell over the big ball of homespun yarn
her father had flung on the floor. For a moment she gazed at it
resentfully--then, with a gay little laugh, she pounced on it. The next
moment she was at her table, writing a brief note to Kenneth MacNair.
When it was written, Ursula unwound the gray ball to a considerable
depth, pinned the note on it, and rewound the yarn over it. A gray
ball, the color of the twilight, might escape observation, where a white
missive fluttering down from an upper window would surely be seen by
someone. Then she softly opened her window and waited.

"It was dusk when Andrew went away. Fortunately old Hugh did not come to
the door with him. As Andrew untied his horse Ursula threw the ball with
such good aim that it struck him, as she had meant it to do, squarely on
the head. Andrew looked up at her window. She leaned out, put her finger
warningly on her lips, pointed to the ball, and nodded. Andrew, looking
somewhat puzzled, picked up the ball, sprang to his saddle, and galloped
off.

"So far, well, thought Ursula. But would Andrew understand? Would he
have wit enough to think of exploring the big, knobby ball for its
delicate secret? And would he be at the dance after all?

"The evening dragged by. Time had never seemed so long to Ursula. She
could not rest or sleep. It was midnight before she heard the patter of
a handful of gravel on her window-panes. In a trice she was leaning out.
Below in the darkness stood Kenneth MacNair.

"'Oh, Kenneth, did you get my letter? And is it safe for you to be
here?'

"'Safe enough. Your father is in bed. I've waited two hours down the
road for his light to