“I am scarcely more than a guest myself; but Mr. Power is always glad to see whoever cares to come,” replied Christie rather primly, though her eyes were dancing with amusement at the recollection of those love passages upon the beach.

“Next time, I shall come not as a stranger, but as a former—­may I say friend?” he added quickly, as if emboldened by the mirthful eyes that so belied the demure lips.

“Now you forget your part,” and Christie’s primness vanished in a laugh.  “I am glad of it, for I want to ask about Mrs. Saltonstall and the children.  I’ve often thought of the little dears, and longed to see them.”

“They are in Paris with their father.”

“Mrs. Saltonstall is well, I hope?”

“She died six months ago.”

An expression of genuine sorrow came over Mr. Fletcher’s face as he spoke; and, remembering that the silly little woman was his sister, Christie put out her hand with a look and gesture so full of sympathy that words were unnecessary.  Taking advantage of this propitious moment, he said, with an expressive glance and effective tone:  “I am all alone now.  You will let me come again?”

“Certainly, if it can give you pleasure,” she answered heartily, forgetting herself in pity for his sorrow.

Mr. Fletcher pressed her hand with a grateful, “Thank you!” and wisely went away at once, leaving compassion to plead for him better than he could have done it for himself.

Leaning back in her chair, Christie was thinking over this interview so intently that she started when David’s voice said close beside her: 

“Shall I disturb you if I say, ’Good-night’?”

“I thought you were not going to say it at all,” she answered rather sharply.

“I’ve been looking for a chance; but you were so absorbed with that man I had to wait.”

“Considering the elegance of ‘that man,’ you don’t treat him with much respect.”

“I don’t feel much.  What brought him here, I wonder.  A French salon is more in his line.”

“He came to see Mr. Power, as every one else does, of course.”

“Don’t dodge, Christie:  you know he came to see you.”

“How do you like him?” she asked, with treacherous abruptness.

“Not particularly, so far.  But if I knew him, I dare say I should find many good traits in him.”

“I know you would!” said Christie, warmly, not thinking of Fletcher, but of David’s kindly way of finding good in every one.

“He must have improved since you saw him last; for then, if I remember rightly, you found him ’lazy, cross, selfish,” and conceited.’”

“Now, David, I never said any thing of the sort,” began Christie, wondering what possessed him to be so satirical and short with her.

“Yes, you did, last September, sitting on the old apple-tree the morning of your birthday.”

“What an inconvenient memory you have!  Well, he was all that then; but he is not an invalid now, and so we see his real self.”