ran to the window. Andrew Kinnear of The Springs was tying his
horse at the door. He was a dashing young fellow, and a political
crony of old Hugh. No doubt he would be at the dance that night.
Oh, if she could get speech for but a moment with him!

"When he had gone into the house, Ursula, turning impatiently from
the window, tripped and almost fell over the big ball of homespun
yarn her father had flung on the floor. For a moment she gazed at
it resentfully--then, with a gay little laugh, she pounced on it.
The next moment she was at her table, writing a brief note to
Kenneth MacNair. When it was written, Ursula unwound the gray
ball to a considerable depth, pinned the note on it, and rewound
the yarn over it. A gray ball, the color of the twilight, might
escape observation, where a white missive fluttering down from an
upper window would surely be seen by someone. Then she softly
opened her window and waited.

"It was dusk when Andrew went away. Fortunately old Hugh did not
come to the door with him. As Andrew untied his horse Ursula
threw the ball with such good aim that it struck him, as she had
meant it to do, squarely on the head. Andrew looked up at her
window. She leaned out, put her finger warningly on her lips,
pointed to the ball, and nodded. Andrew, looking somewhat
puzzled, picked up the ball, sprang to his saddle, and galloped
off.

"So far, well, thought Ursula. But would Andrew understand? Would
he have wit enough to think of exploring the big, knobby ball for
its delicate secret? And would he be at the dance after all?