She was out again in the spring sunshine, walking up and down before the house with a book, by the time that the second post was due.
But this time, through the iron gate, she saw the postman go past the house without stopping.
Once more her spirits rose, this time, one might say, to par; and she went indoors.
Her window looked out on to the front; and she moved her writing-table to it to catch as much as possible of the radiant air and light of the spring day.
She proposed to begin to sketch out what she would say to Laurie, and suggest, if he wished it, to come up and see him in a week or two.
She would apologize for her fussiness, and say that the reason why she was writing was that she did not want his mother to be made anxious.
“My dear Laurie …”
She bit her pen gently, and looked out of the window to catch inspiration for the particular frame of words with which she should begin.
And as she looked an old gentleman suddenly appeared beyond the iron gate, shook it gently, glanced up in vain for a name on the stone posts, and stood irresolute.
It was an old trap, that of the front gate; there was no bell, and it was necessary for visitors to come straight in to the front door.
Then, so swiftly that she could not formulate it, an anxiety leapt at her, and she laid her pen down, staring. Who was this?