“No, it was because you were not going—that is, because my feelings, my pride, were hurt,” and again she raised her head with a defiant glance, adding hastily, “Now my turn. Why did you wish to see Brooke, and if you came to see her, why are you found hiding in the fowl house?” “I came because I have learned something about those mysterious keys. They belong to a box in a little-known safe deposit company in Brooklyn, and the name of the lessee is not Lawton; further, they would not tell me, nor can I go on without some aid from the family. Does this errand meet with your approval?” “Then the keys do belong to something! Come quick, Brooke, let us out and hear the news!” called Lucy, pounding on the door; but no response came,—only a growl, not from Tatters, but from the unseen thunder-shower that was, as usual, making its way over Windy Hill. “As to your last question,” continued Brownell, without heeding the interruption, “I was passing a window on the way to the side door when I heard a familiar voice reading a letter. One look confirmed my suspicion, and, like a wise brute in danger, I made for the nearest cover, not expecting to be made a prisoner, but to get off unseen!” “Why do you avoid me? What have I done to make you hate me so?” Lucy almost whispered, a little break creeping into her voice that made Brownell start forward. “Why? Because a sane man usually avoids a danger of which he has had many warnings. Don’t look at me like that, Lucy, and for God’s sake take your hand off my shoulder, or you’ll make me forget my self-respect and let myself go, only to be mocked by a woman!” But Lucy did not move her eyes or her hand, while its mate stole to his other shoulder. “Talking of self-respect,” she said slowly, but with an indescribable tender archness of accent, “why do you wish to make me lose mine by forcing me to throw myself into your arms? See, I am braver than you, I do not fear to be mocked by a man!” “Lucy!” “Tom!” Those were the only two intelligible words of the rush that followed, but even the catbird in the syringa bush, had his eye and ear been turned that way, might have taken a lesson in rapid and complete wooing and winning. A patter of rain on the roof, another growl, and a flash caused Brooke to hasten out to the porch to look for her friend, while Tatters still barked and clawed at the door of the poultry house. Opening the door, she spied Lucy, who, for the moment, had pushed Brownell into the darkness behind her. “So you looked for cats and weasels, and the door slammed on you!” she cried, dragging Lucy out by the wrist, and brushing away the whitewash that powdered her dark hair. “Hurry back to the house, for you know that neither one of us has a love of thunder-storms!” “You were right, Brooke, it was not Tatters’ animal bark,—it was a man that frightened the fowls,” answered Lucy, still holding back.