"Yes?" said I, answering the look. But she only stooped her head and went on sewing; yet the color was bright in her cheeks. And, having driven in the four brackets, or staples, and closed the door, I took up the bars and showed her how they were to lie crosswise across the door, resting in the brackets. "We shall be safe now, Peter," said she; "those bars would resist—an elephant." "I think they would," I nodded; "but there is yet something more." Going to my shelf of books I took thence the silver-mounted pistol she had brought with her, and balanced it in my hand. "To-morrow I will take this to Cranbrook, and buy bullets to fit it." "Why, there are bullets there—in one of the old shoes, Peter." "They are too large; this is an unusually small calibre, and yet it would be deadly enough at close range. I will load it for you, Charmian, and give it into your keeping, in case you should ever—grow afraid again, when I am not by; this is a lonely place—for a woman—at all times." "Yes, Peter." She was busily employed upon a piece of embroidery, and began to sing softly to herself again as she worked,—that old song which worthy Mr. Pepys mentions having heard from the lips of mischievous-eyed Nell Gwynn: "In Scarlet town, where I was born, There was a fair maid dwellin', Made every youth cry Well-a-way! Her name was Barbara Allen." "Are you so happy, Charmian?" "Oh, sir, indifferent well, I thank you. "'All in the merry month of May When green buds they were swellin', Young Jemmy Grove on his death-bed lay, For love of Barbara Allen.' "Are you so—miserable, Peter?" "Why do you ask?" "Because you sigh, and sigh, like—poor Jemmy Grove in the song." "He was a fool!" said I. "For sighing, Peter?" "For dying." "I suppose no philosopher could ever be so—foolish, Peter?" "No," said I; "certainly not!" "It is well to be a philosopher, isn't it, Peter?" "Hum!" said I, and once more set about lighting my pipe. Anon I rose and, crossing to the open door, looked out upon the summer night, and sighed, and coming back, sat watching Charmian's busy fingers. "Charmian," said I at last. "Yes, Peter?" "Do you—ever see any—any—men lurking about the Hollow—when I am away?" Her needle stopped suddenly, and she did not look up as she answered: "No, Peter!" "Never?—are you—sure, Charmian?" The needle began to fly to and fro again, but still she did not look up. "No—of course not—how should I see any one? I scarcely go beyond the Hollow, and—I'm busy all day." "A Eve—a Eve!" said a voice in my ear. "Eve tricked Adam, didn't she?—a Eve!" After this I sat for a long time without, moving, my mind harassed with doubts and a hideous, morbid dread. Why had she avoided my eye? Her own were pure and truthful, and could not lie! Why, why had they avoided mine? If only she had looked at me! Presently I rose and began to pace up and down the room. "You are very restless, Peter!"