d,
and her one experience with it had not given her a far-reaching knowledge
of fire-arms. Still, it was a gun, and guns concealed cowardice, and lent
power and dignity to one's bearing. Vivian knew that it was loaded.
Virginia always kept it ready in case a gopher poked his inquisitive
little nose above the ground. She knew, too, that a quick push of her
thumb would drive back the safety and leave the gun ready to shoot.

She ran down the hall and out the back door toward the root cellar. Her
heart was in her mouth, her breath came in gasps, her wide-open blue eyes
were filled with terror. When she reached the stone steps leading down to
the cellar she looked far less a heroine than a much frightened little
girl. Still, there was the gun! Vivian's nervous fingers kept pushing the
safety on and off--a rather terrifying sound to the ears of a much
surprised man, who, papers in hand, was coming up the steps.

Vivian saw the papers. She was right! Mr. Crusoe had been rifling Mr.
Hunter's private possessions. She raised the gun with a trembling hand.

"Mr. Crusoe," she faltered, "this gun is loaded, and if you try to pass
me, I--I'm very sure I shall shoot you. You sit down there in the cellar
and wait for Mr. Hunter."

Mr. Crusoe sat down. He was too surprised to do anything else. He had
faced guns many times before in his varied existence, but never had he
been confronted by a shaking .22 in the trembling hands of a very nervous
young lady. Moreover, the sound of a safety clicking nervously back and
forth is not conducive to peace. Mr. Crusoe did not expect Vivian to shoot
him, but he did entertain a fear that the gun might go off in his
direction and in spite of her. Considering silence the better part of
valor, he accordingly sought the farthest corner of the cellar and hoped
for the best.

Vivian sat upon the top step, the gun upon her knees. She had not looked
for such non-resistance on the part of Mr. Crusoe. Indeed, he looked less
fierce than she had ever seen him. Could she have observed the amused
smile which was quivering beneath Mr. Crusoe's black whiskers as he began
more fully to understand this peculiar situation, she would have been much
puzzled. To her, he was a cringing suppliant, and she a distinct
conqueror.

Still the minutes dragged themselves very slowly away. It seemed two
hours, though it was in reality but ten minutes before conqueror and
conquered heard the roll of returning wheels, the soun