Now that he seemed displeased by their too solicitous obedience, none of the gathering servants laid claim to it; and while all stood waiting, arrested in their attitudes of fear or defense, a curious thing happened. Glory Beck threw off the protecting arms of Timothy Dowd and, with Bonny Angel clasped close in her own, swiftly advanced to the granite step where the white-haired gentleman stood. Her face that had paled in fear now flushed in excitement as with a voice unlike her own she cried: "You, sir! You, sir! What have you done with my grandfather?" The gentleman stared at her, thinking her fright had turned her brain; but saying kindly, as soon as he could command his voice: "There, child. It's all right. The dogs won't touch you now." "The dogs!" retorted the child, in infinite scorn. "What do I care for the dogs? It's you I want. You, that 'Snug-Harbor'-Bonnicastle-man who coaxed my grandpa Simon Beck away from his own home an' never let him come back any more!" Then her anger subsiding into an intensity of longing, she threw herself at his feet, clasping his knees and imploring, piteously: "Oh! take me to him. Tell me, tell me where he is. I've looked so long and I don't know where and--please, please, please." For a moment nobody spoke; not even Colonel Bonnicastle, for it was he, indeed, though he silently motioned to a trustworthy man who had drawn near to take the dogs away; and who, in obedience, whistling imperatively, gathered their chains in his hands and led them back to their kennel. When the dogs had disappeared, the master of Broadacres sank into a near-by chair, wiping his brow and pityingly regarded the little girl who still knelt, imploringly. He was trying to comprehend what had happened, what she meant, and if he had ever seen her before. Captain Simon Beck! That was a familiar name, surely, but of that ungrateful seaman, who wouldn't be given a "Snug Harbor" whether or no, of him he had never heard nor even thought since his one memorable uncomfortable visit to Elbow Lane. "Simon Beck--Simon Beck," he began, musingly. "Yes, I know a Simon Beck, worthy seaman, and would befriend him if I could. Is he your grandfather, child, and what has happened to him that you speak to me so--so--well, let us say--rudely?" Then he added, in that commanding tone which few who knew him ever disobeyed: "Get up at once, child. Your kneeling to me is absurd, nor do I know in what way I can help you, though you think I can do so--apparently. Why! How strange--how like--" He had stooped and raised Glory, gently forcing her to her feet, and as he did so, Bonny Angel turned her own face around from the girl's breast where she had buried it in her terror of the dogs.