“I think something is stirring up your poultry; shall I go and see?” Lucy called, going around under Brooke’s window, for the latter had gone up to rest a few moments after a tiresome afternoon. “I guess the hens have only fallen off their perches, and are frightened,” Brooke answered, coming to the window; “they often do, the sillies. It cannot be rats or weasels, for that is not Tatters’ animal bark,—that tone means a man, and no one would be so foolish as to come prowling before dark.” Lucy continued to watch the catbird, but on the noise recommencing, Tatters growled again, and leaving the porch, nose to ground, skirted the library window, went to the gate, returned, stood under the window for a second with bristling hair, and then, leading straight to the fowl house, began tearing at the door. Interested in his tactics, and thinking the intruder nothing worse than a prowling cat, Lucy threw the skirt of her flowered dimity over her arm and crossed the garden to the lane. “Quiet, Tatters, quiet!” she cautioned, patting his head; “you must let me attend to this; dogs are not allowed in fowl houses, they have been known to produce heart disease in susceptible young pullets. Sit down and watch out!” Touching the spring, she released the latch, and opening the door cautiously, lest any fowls escape, she peered in, thus coming instantly face to face with the caged man! The shock for a moment made her lose her poise, and she almost tottered as she cried, “Tom Brownell!” At the same time Tatters, seeing the strange man, sprang forward, and to keep him back Lucy stepped inside the sill-less door; his weight as he sprung closed it with a snap, making her in turn a prisoner. “I thought you were in New York! What are you doing here?” she flashed, regaining her poise and colour at the same time. “And I thought that you were in California,” retorted Brownell, carelessly, hands in pockets, holding sentiment down hard. “Then you did not come here to see me?” “On the contrary, I came to see Miss Lawton! Are you usually to be found in chicken houses?” “Ah, she _is_, then? Suppose, as we must put up with each other’s society until Tatters leads Brooke to our rescue, that we play the truth game to kill time,—you know that truth can be trusted to kill almost anything nowadays; I will ask the first question. Did you give up the California trip because you wished to avoid me?” “Yes, but not in exactly the way—Yes, I did,” this with an emphatic nod. “It is my turn. Why did you not go to California?” “Because—because—” and the eloquent Lucy became suddenly tongue-tied. “Because of a prospective stepmother, was it not?” assisted Brownell, feeling an instant warmth about his heart, as her defiance relaxed.