Every wile known
to beauty had been employed in a hundred sieges. But the Jack Snipe of
eighteen was still the lonely Jack Snipe at twenty-three: his heart
was sheathed in a love that harked back to a rough, picturesque
development and was strong by virtue of its memories.
At no time in all these spreading years had Christine Braddock's
flower-face and girlish figure faded from his vision. On this misty
night in early June, while others were thinking of him, he was
thinking of her and the promise made five years before. In five years,
they both had said. The term of probation was drawing to an end. He
was waiting now for the redemption of that promise.
Once, and once only, had he heard from them, and then in the most
mysterious way. Soon after his return to the University an envelope
containing four hundred dollars in crisp new bills was delivered to
him by Jeff, his body-servant, who came all the way up from the
plantation to say that it had been left at the Hall by a man who
offered no explanation except that his master would understand.
No day passed that he did not look for some sign from Mary Braddock.
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