A week or two of this new caprice set Christie to thinking.  She knew that Uncle Philip was not fond of “the darlings;” it was evident that good Miss Tudor, with her mild twaddle and eternal knitting, was not the attraction, so she was forced to believe that he came for her sake alone.  She laughed at herself for this fancy at first; but not possessing the sweet unconsciousness of those heroines who can live through three volumes with a burning passion before their eyes, and never see it till the proper moment comes, and Eugene goes down upon his knees, she soon felt sure that Mr. Pletcher found her society agreeable, and wished her to know it.

Being a mortal woman, her vanity was flattered, and she found herself showing that she liked it by those small signs and symbols which lovers’ eyes are so quick to see and understand,—­an artful bow on her hat, a flower in her belt, fresh muslin gowns, and the most becoming arrangement of her hair.

“Poor man, he has so few pleasures I’m sure I needn’t grudge him such a small one as looking at and listening to me if he likes it,” she said to herself one day, as she was preparing for her daily stroll with unusual care.  “But how will it end?  If he only wants a mild flirtation he is welcome to it; but if he really cares for me, I must make up my mind about it, and not deceive him.  I don’t believe he loves me:  how can he? such an insignificant creature as I am.”

Here she looked in the glass, and as she looked the color deepened in her cheek, her eyes shone, and a smile would sit upon her lips, for the reflection showed her a very winning face under the coquettish hat put on to captivate.

“Don’t be foolish, Christie!  Mind what you do, and be sure vanity doesn’t delude you, for you are only a woman, and in tilings of this sort we are so blind and silly.  I’ll think of this possibility soberly, but I won’t flirt, and then which ever way I decide I shall have nothing to reproach myself with.”

Armed with this virtuous resolution, Christie sternly replaced the pretty hat with her old brown one, fastened up a becoming curl, which of late she had worn behind her ear, and put on a pair of stout, rusty boots, much fitter for rocks and sand than the smart slippers she was preparing to sacrifice.  Then she trudged away to Miss Tudor, bent on being very quiet and reserved, as became a meek and lowly governess.

But, dear heart, how feeble are the resolutions of womankind!  When she found herself sitting in her favorite nook, with the wide, blue sea glittering below, the fresh wind making her blood dance in her veins, and all the earth and sky so full of summer life and loveliness, her heart would sing for joy, her face would shine with the mere bliss of living, and underneath all this natural content the new thought, half confessed, yet very sweet, would whisper, “Somebody cares for me.”