"I think we ought to take this thing more seriously," Sard continued with a little short breath of indignation, adding more gently, "We don't really know what we're up against. I've heard that Watts Shipman is terribly reserved. We don't want to antagonize him." "I shan't antagonize him," came a fresh high voice. "I shall vamp him. I shall twine around him like the ivy in the snow." They all chuckled. Minga, clad in scarlet sweater and skirt, with the orange silk handkerchief bound around her curls, suddenly slid into a bright patch of moonlight where the trees were thinnest, making a natural stage setting. "I am terribly reserved," shrieked Minga in high falsetto. "I am the primmest little prune in the county. But I am some little dancer and don't you forget it, and I will dance his eyes out of his head. Ladies and gents," announced Minga, "the Pocahontas Pep. Watch me!" They stood there watching her prowling paces and archly bold postures. The slender form bent almost backward, the eyes filled with imaginary passion and adventure and fear. When she ended with a lovely fantastic rush and stampede, it is quite certain that that grave Indian maiden, the estimable Pocahontas, would have been as much fascinated as anyone else. At the catcalls and whoops of applause, Sard again held up her hand. "Minga," she pleaded, "Dunce, please, all of you." Sard was very positive. The solemn lawyer youth in the background, silently adoring her, brightened as her voice took on asperity and decision. "This is really silly," she scolded; "it's--it's not the way to do things. Didn't we come up here to try to save Terence O'Brien?" she demanded. "Sure," soothed one of the boys. "Right-o!" added one or two more. "Well then," said Sard, "if I know a thing of Watts Shipman from what I've heard Father say," she dropped her voice to persuasive entreaty. "No, really, Minga! Dunce! we won't get a thing out of that man if we act like this; he's very hard to deal with; he's cold and aloof and----" "An altogether haughty and disagreeable person," said a deep voice. The group turned quickly, and there in the moonlight, his hand on the suspicious Friar Tuck's collar, stood the lawyer. There was a moment's silence; a sort of shiver ran through the young people. It was a sensation they quickly recognized, but to which they could give no name; the voice and presence of spiritual poise, the calm, inexorable deliberation of assured authority. "How do you do, everybody?" said Watts quietly, as quietly as he stood there waiting. That "everybody," grave as it was, contained an informal welcome that Minga was quick to recognize. She, who took hurdles as soon as they were presented, now tried to jump the barrier of this stranger's powerful personality. She stepped forward, a funny little figure in scarlet, opposite to the tall khaki-clad repose of the man. "How do you do, Mr. Shipman?" came the little voice in the moonlight.