Gregory the cause of its alarm, for through an opening in the thicket
he saw the lady who had started out for a walk with the children while
he was leaning on the front gate.

Shrinking further behind the cedars he proposed to reconnoitre a
little before making himself known. He observed that she was attired
in a dark, close-fitting costume suitable for rambling among the
hills. At first he thought that she was pretty, and then that she was
not. His quick, critical eye detected that her features were not
regular, that her profile was not classic. It was only the rich glow
of exercise and the jaunty gypsy hat that had given the first
impression of something like beauty. In her right hand, which was
ungloved, she daintily held, by its short stem, a chestnut burr which
the squirrel in its alarm had dropped, and now, in its own shrill
vernacular, was scolding about so vociferously. She was glancing
around for some means to break it open, and Gregory had scarcely time
to notice her fine dark eyes, when, as if remembering the rock on
which he had been sitting, she advanced toward him with a step so
quick and elastic that he envied her vigor.

Further concealment was now impossible. Therefore with easy politeness
he stepped forward and said: "Let me open the burr for you, Miss
Walton."

She started violently at the sound of his voice, and for a moment
reminded him of a frightened bird on the eve of flight.

"Pardon me for so alarming you," he hastened to say, "and also pardon
a seeming stranger for addressing you informally. My name may not be
unknown to you, although I am in person. It is Walter Gregory."