He went into the store-room; found Martha's chink, and realized exactly
what had been the extent of Martha's view, during the last two days.

Then he bent his hungry young eyes on Christobel.

She was seated in a garden chair, her back to the house, her face
towards the postern gate in the old red wall at the bottom of the
garden. The rustic table, upon which he would soon deposit the
tea-tray, was slightly behind and to the left of her. The sun shone
through the mulberry leaves, glinting on the pure whiteness of her
gown. She leaned her beautiful head back wearily. Her whole attitude
betokened fatigue. He could not see her face; but he felt sure her
eyes were open; and he knew her eyes were on the gate.

The Boy's lips moved. "Christobel," he whispered.
"Christobel--beloved?"

She was waiting; and he knew she was waiting for him.

Presently he dropped the lath of the Venetian blind, and turned to go.
But first he took out his pocket-book and fastened the lath which
lifted most easily, to those above and below it, with halfpenny stamps.
He knew old Martha would take a hint from him. There must be no eyes
on the mulberry-tree to-day.

In the kitchen the tray was ready; tea freshly made, thin
bread-and-butter, cucumber sandwiches; hot buttered-toast in
perfection; cornflour buns, warranted to explode; all the things he
liked most; and, best of all, cups for two. He grasped the tray firmly
with both hands.

"Martha," he said, "you are a jewel! I give you leave to watch me down
the lawn from the kitchen window. But when I have safely arrived, turn
your attention to your own tea, or I shall look up and shake my fist at
your dear nice old face. And, I say, Martha, do you ever write
postcards? Because, if you want any ha'penny stamps, you will find
some on the storeroom blind. Only, _don't want them_, Martha, till
this week is over, and I am gone."

Whereupon the Boy lifted the tray, and made for the door.

Down the lawn he bore it, and set it safely on the rustic table. He
was very deft of movement, was the Boy; yet, remembering his
instructions, he contrived to set it down with something of a clatter.

Miss Charteris did not turn her head Her eyes, half closed beneath the
long lashes, were on the postern gate.

"Jenkins?" she said.

"Yes, ma'am," replied the Boy, in excellent imitation of the meek tones
of Jenkins.

"Should any one call this afternoon, Jenkins, please remember that I am
not