It would soon be dusk, and he could slip back to his companions unseen, make some easy excuse for not having called, and tell Brooke of his partial discovery by letter. This flashed through his mind as the door closed. At the same time he looked about the building that he had entered, to see if it had another exit, and discovered it to be a poultry house, the well-white-washed perches of which were crowded by mature, experienced hens, each wing-capped for the night. In the uncertain light he made a misstep on the uneven ground, compounded of ashes and broken lime, that formed the floor, which sent him reeling into the midst of the feathered multitude, and as he grasped a perch to save himself from rolling in the dust, he shook off the portly sleepers. A perfect babel of hen alarm arose as the frightened ladies flew in his face and lodged on his arms and shoulders in their useless flight. “Be still,” he called in a husky voice; “for heaven’s sake don’t raise such a devil of a row—they will take me for a rat or a weasel at the very least, and set the dogs on me,” and then he laughed when he realized upon what unintelligent scatterbrains his words had fallen. The windows, all too small for retreat, were also netted. There was but one door, so finally, getting his bearings, he made a dive for that, only to find it firmly fastened by Miss Keith’s anti-chicken-thief spring lock! They say love laughs at locksmiths, but bitter satire! when before had the device of one of the craft imprisoned a man flying love, in a fowl house? Folding his arms, with shoulders squared and jaw set, Brownell waited. Already he heard the barking of a dog, women’s voices, and steps upon the porch of the house. Could any position be more preposterous? * * * * * Lucy had finished reading her letter, and stood in the porch, watching a catbird’s fantastic wooing as it paused in the midst of an impassioned song to jeer, expostulate, coax, and protest all in a breath, now raising itself tiptoe on an ecstatic high note, and then languishing until it seemed to melt into the bushes. Every other bird loses self-consciousness and pours his heart out in the love time, the catbird never; and yet its compelling fascination lies in that it is always itself. Lucy laughed softly as she watched the feathered pair, and said to Tatters, who stood beside her, “Do you know, old fellow, I think if any one wooes me, he will have to do it all in a breath, and after hypnotizing me by his rattling, like that bird yonder, secure my hand and heart before I wake. How I wish I were that lady bird this very minute, having all this fuss made for me, and sitting perfectly composed in a bush without a thought to spare for my trousseau!” Tatters’ answer was a low growl, and then a series of quick barks as the hubbub in the hennery began.