“You stop right there,” cried Polly, “or I’ll give you a taste of shot. The best thing for you is to mount yer hoss, or if you haven’t one, to go foot-back if you like to where you came from, for go you shall, or you’ll be sorry.” There was no answer but the bang of the shutter as it fell from its hinges. Polly’s temper was up, and without further ado she snatched up her rifle from its accustomed corner. There was a flash, a report, a heavy fall, and Polly backed away from the window, while Agnes sank to the floor covering her face with her hands. CHAPTER VII THE INTRUDER It was some weeks later that the gaunt form of a young man might have been seen stretched on the bed in one of the loft rooms. The place was very still. Upon the homespun curtains at the small window the flickering play of light and shade showed forth the drawing of a pine tree’s branches. An array of bowls and cups stood upon a small table and the small room bore the appearance of having been used for some time by one used to nursing a very ill patient. Presently the young man opened his eyes wearily and looked around the room. He was very white and wan. His dark hair, which had been cropped close, was beginning to grow out in little wavy locks about his forehead. He lifted his hand feebly, and looked at its transparent thinness. “Where am I?” he asked weakly. At his words Polly came forward and observed him closely. “Praise God, yer yersel’ again!” she exclaimed. “Now don’t say a word, me lad. Drink this, and go to sleep.” The young man gazed at her wonderingly, but he obeyed so far as to drink from the cup which she held to his lips. “I don’t want to go to sleep. I want to know where I am,” he persisted. “It looks natural and yet it doesn’t.” Polly set down her cup and smiled, the young man regarding her silently but with evident surprise. He took in every detail of her rough dress; he noted the thick hair which swept back in pretty curves from the low forehead, the steady gray eyes with their long dark lashes, the firm red lips. He closed his eyes, but opened them again, almost immediately. “You’re still here,” he said; “I thought you were a dream.” Polly smiled again. “I’m a purty substantial dream. Do you feel better?” “Yes, I suppose so; only I don’t know what has been the matter. Where am I? What has happened?” Polly shook her head. “Don’t try to remember. You are here in good hands. All you have to do is to obey orders and try to get well and strong.” “I begin to remember.” The patient spoke slowly as if recalling, gradually, certain events. “I came home and couldn’t get in; then somebody fired at me.” He looked at Polly inquiringly, and the blood mounted to the very roots of her hair. “Yes, but you must wait till you are stronger to hear all about it,” she told him. “We do not know your name, and you do not know us. I am Polly O’Neill; that’s enough for you to know at one time. We’ll talk about the hows and whys later.”