Susan stands rooted to the ground, not knowing whether to stay or fly. Old stories of heroines return to her, and it seems to her that it would be base to steal away now and say nothing; even if she happened to gain the walk outside, it is doubtful whether she should meet any servant, this being a saint’s day; and if she did, would he be willing to tackle a real live thief single-handed? As she hesitates, she again looks at the man, and notices that he is glancing from right to left, hesitating, as if either uneasy or else with a view to choosing the best fruit. Both ideas anger her, but the second more than the first. Uneasy? of course he is! And no wonder, too! A thief must necessarily be uneasy. And to attempt to steal here, in this lovely secluded place! The owner of Crosby Park has been so long away that Susan has almost adopted his place as her own. Many years ago Mr. Crosby, who had been a pupil of Mr. Barry’s, had given directions that every member of the Barry family should have free right to his grounds, and Susan, once come to years of discretion—not so long ago—has taken great advantage of this kindly permission. It is so near to the Vicarage, and so lovely! All its walks and pretty windings are so well known to her. They have been much to her, indeed, during all these years, though so little to the actual possessor of them, who has evidently found more pleasure in shooting grizzlies than in cultivating cherries. That now someone has come to steal these cherries seems dreadful to Susan. With that poor man away, too—at the end of the world probably, shooting, or being shot by, some of those awful Indians! Again she casts her frightened glance at the thief, still high on his ladder and secure from detection now that all the servants are away; and something in his air—an insolent security, perhaps—drives her to action. No, she will not fly! She will tell him, at all events, what she thinks of him before flying. She makes her way straight to the foot of the ladder, wrath in her bosom, and addresses him. ‘I wonder you aren’t ashamed of yourself!’ cries she, righteous indignation in her tones and in her lovely uplifted eyes. The sweet voice rings up the ladder. The start that the thief on the top of it gives, when he hears her, condemns him to all eternity in Susan’s eyes. ‘No one,’ argues Susan to herself, ‘ever starts unless he is guilty.’ Susan is very young. The man casts a sidelong glance at her. It is so one-sided that Susan hardly sees him, but evidently he is trembling, conscience-stricken, because he makes no reply. ‘Come down!’ says Susan again, her courage mounting with the occasion. Her tone is now severely calm, and without a vestige of fear. After all, he is a poor creature whom even a girl can frighten, so small is the courage of the unrighteous! ‘Do you know what you are doing? You’—with accumulated scorn—‘are stealing!’