This etext was transcribed by Les Bowler

KITTY CARSTAIRS

By
J. J. BELL

Author of “WeeMacgreegor,” “Oh! Christina!”
“Dancing Days,” etc., etc.

NEW YORK
FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
1918

Printed in Great Britain

p. 1CHAPTERI

Through the still summer dusk thenight mail for London roared down the long declivity, clashedinto a cutting and forth again, screamed, flashed past thedeserted little station of Dunford, and thundered triumphantlyalong the level towards Kitty Carstairs.

Leaning on the fence bounding the track, the girl watched thetremendous approach with a fascination which custom had failed todull.  As the monster seemed to leap upon her, her attitudelost its easy laxness; she stood erect, her white-clad armsleaving the fence, her slim brown fingers clutching it.  Asensation of oily, steamy warmth, a glimpse of two dark humanfigures in a fiery glow—and the great engine waspast.  A whirl of brilliantly-lighted corridors with theirpuppet-like occupants, a couple of darkened sleeping-cars, morecarriages, a postal van, a p. 2guard’s van—and the trainwas gone.  A rush of air cooled her delicately-tanned faceand disturbed her unprotected dark hair.  Her brown eyesgazed after the train, and saw the big net swing out from thepostal van, and snatch the little leather-covered bundle from theiron arm, which Sam the postman had moved into position a minuteearlier.

With a sigh Kitty took her hands from the fence.  Thethrill was over, the reaction had come.  For a moment shehesitated.  Should she wait for Sam, the postman, as shesometimes did, and get his honest, cheerful company home? No, she couldn’t be bothered with Sam to-night; she wouldsooner run the risk of meeting some one whom she would rather notmeet.

She turned to cross the broad field that stretched between herand the main road, and found herself face to face with a youngman in light tweeds, well cut but getting shabby.  He wasfairly tall, grey-eyed, and inclined to fairness, and his shavencountenance was decidedly attractive.

“Good evening,” he said, with a grave smile, asthough not quite sure of his welcome.

She was startled, but recovered herself as quickly as theflush left her cheek.  “Good evening, Mr.Hayward,” she returned in a tone of p. 3politenesssoftened by kindness.  “I didn’t know you werein Dunford.”

“I came home this afternoon.  May I walk a bit ofthe way with you?—that is if youaren’t—”  He stopped short.

Following his gaze she saw the figure of a man crossing thefield in their direction.  She frowned slightly, saying:“You know your people won’t like it, Mr.Hayward.”  Then hurriedly—“I don’twant to have to speak to Mr. Symington—if that’s hecoming.”

“Then I’ll stay with you, Kitty, for it’scertainly Symington.  Ah, he’s turning back.  Onewould almost think he had heard you.”

“He couldn’t possibly hear me at that distance,unless in his mind,” she said.  “And you hadbetter not call me ‘Kitty,’ Mr. Hayward,” sheadded.  It was more an appeal than a command.

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