SITTING within our tent, one morning, resting from the duties of frying and eating perch for breakfast, we heard a young, fresh voice outside say:--

"Whoa, now! Stand still a moment, can't you? Hullo in the tent there! Hullo!"

This was something new. No "horse and team," as they say here, could come up on that cliff. We both hastened to put aside the curtain and look forth, our curiosity having been largely fostered since our stay at the shore. What we saw was a small white pony, bearing on his back a girl of fourteen or fifteen. A veritable Southern saddle pony, we saw at a glance. He stood looking wisely at us while we gazed at his rider, who was almost transparently fair of face, with light hair flying out from under her hat, great solemn eyes, and an irregular mouth, almost startlingly red. Although she was not forward in the least, she was entirely self-possessed. She said that if she dismounted she could not mount alone very well, and so she had shouted at us. She had come over because her grandmother had a dreadful dream about burglars, and had sent word that she would be awfully glad if we would spend that night at her house. But we need not bring the dog, because she was as afraid of the dog as she was of burglars. She had had the dream three times running, and it had upset her so that she felt about as nearly crazy as a loon.

We listened in silence to this peculiarly attractive girlish voice, as it rather slowly gave us the above information in correct English, and our amazement grew with every word. Who was this girl in a well-fitting habit, mounted on a saddle-horse, and appearing thus at the door of our tent; and not only appearing to us, but enunciating with an ease and clearness that almost made us dumb? It was so rarely that we heard words pronounced, not chewed up grotesquely, that we immediately had a suspicion that this must be a princess, at least. Her eyes had a limpid appearance, which, however common among heroines in novels, is rare in the flesh.

"Your grandmother?" said I, thinking I would begin in this way, and if I could find out who the elder woman was I could discover the girl's identity. "But we don't know who your grandmother is."

"Sure enough!" she laughed. "They call her Randy Rankin, and she lives in the Two-mile. She's just the same as my grandmother, and I love her. She married my father's father, so she is n't really any blood relation. But," added the girl with great frankness, "she's ten times dearer than ever grandfather was. There was something about him that made my flesh crawl; I could n't endure him, and they could n't make me go to the funeral. If you had hated a man, would you go to his funeral just because he was dead?"

She seemed to ask the question of my friend, who replied seriously:--

"You could hardly have gone if he had n't been dead, you know."

The girl stared an instant, then threw back her head and laughed. When she had ceased I said:--

"You must be Lily Rankin."

"Yes, I am. You see, I never was very strong, and this spring my father bought this Texas pony. It's a splendid thing to be just strong enough to have a pony that has all the gaits and that knows everything."

We agreed that that amount of strength must be a very desirable possession, and then we asked if she were the child who could not sustain the effect produced by the Tree of Death as portrayed on her parlor walls. Her face darkened as she acknowledged that she was that child. It was easy enough to see why the study of that picture had produced convulsions in such a subject as this.

We found ourselves trying to detain Lily Rankin. There was a distinct pleasure in being near her. I was conscious of a desire to have her in our tent for an indefinite length of time. I told her that we would engage to "boost" her into the saddle again if she would dismount. But no. It occurred to her just then that she ought to be in a hurry. She must ride round and tell her grandmother what we said.

"If you can go over," she; went on, "she's going to make a huckleberry slump.

And I tell you her huckleberry slumps are of that kind that you are just ready to cry if there is n't enough for three helpings round. Everybody wants three helpings; heaping ones, too. I always cried when I saw the slump was going to give out too soon. And then grandpa used to say, 'Sho, now! Little girls should n't be greedy and cry for their victuals,' and he would take the last and biggest piece on his own plate and gobble it while I sat looking at him and hating him. No, I can't go and begin to respect him now that he is dead."

Evidently this subject of her dead grandfather was one on which she had received a few impressive lectures, with the result of exciting a great deal of combativeness in her mind.

"Tell your grandmother to make the slump," we said, "and we'll be there before supper."

And Lily Rankin cantered out of sight down the narrow path along the cliff.

It did seem rather absurd to go somewhere as a protection against burglars, and to leave the mastiff at home. However, we suspected that the fear of burglars was not very strong in Randy Rankin's mind. Had she not lived alone in her house ever since her separation from her husband?

We shut Max up in the tent in the middle of the afternoon, rowed across Salt Pond in our dory,--for we had by this time reduced Marthy Lizabuth to tolerable subjection,--took a barge for about half a mile on our way, and walked the rest of the distance. We had never seen Mrs. Rankin's house. We found it to be one of those low, blackened, small houses that one sees occasionally in New England, and which look as if they might be a thousand years old. This one had, in reality, been standing nearly two hundred years.

The enormous oak beams ran through the middle of the ceiling of each room, and told why the house could endure so long. It would be many a score of years yet before the old "Sherman place" would fall to pieces. The house had been the property of Shermans ever since it was built; and the first Sherman had his deed from the Indians. It was Mrs. Rankin's ancestral home. There are such homes scattered about near these now! Little girls should n't be greedy and cry for their victuals,' and he would take the last and biggest piece on his own plate and gobble it while I sat looking at him and hating him. No, I can't go and begin to respect him now that he is dead."

Evidently this subject of her dead grandfather was one on which she had received a few impressive lectures, with the result of exciting a great deal of combativeness in her mind.

"Tell your grandmother to make the slump," we said, "and we'll be there before supper."

And Lily Rankin cantered out of sight down the narrow path along the cliff.

It did seem rather absurd to go somewhere as a protection against burglars, and to leave the mastiff at home. However, we suspected that the fear of burglars was not very strong in Randy Rankin's mind. Had she not lived alone in her house ever since her separation from her husband?

We shut Max up in the tent in the middle of the afternoon, rowed across Salt Pond in our dory,--for we had by this time reduced Marthy Lizabuth to tolerable subjection,--took a barge for about half a mile on our way, and walked the rest of the distance. We had never seen Mrs. Rankin's house. We found it to be one of those low, blackened, small houses that one sees occasionally in New England, and which look as if they might be a thousand years old. This one had, in reality, been standing nearly two hundred years.

The enormous oak beams ran through the middle of the ceiling of each room, and told why the house could endure so long. It would be many a score of years yet before the old "Sherman place" would fall to pieces. The house had been the property of Shermans ever since it was built; and the first Sherman had his deed from the Indians. It was Mrs. Rankin's ancestral home. There are such homes scattered about near these The tone in which these last words were spoken was low, and seemed to have heartbeats in it. I saw two tears gather slowly, then drop down the worn cheeks.

"But land! I do believe I sh'll cry if I ain't ca'fful," she suddenly exclaimed briskly a moment later. "I 'm kinder unstrung, and I ain't slep' half enough lately. I s'pose I oughter hev let ye brought that dorg," she ended abruptly.

We told her she ought to have allowed Max here, if she wished a real protection. "But," I added hesitatingly, and glancing in some doubt at Carlos, "I ventured to bring my revolver," and I put my hand on the leather satchel I had placed in a chair near me. I thought my friend looked somewhat uneasy, but she considerately said nothing.

Randy Rankin started up as if she were about to run away; then she adroitly changed her movement to the direction of the stove, and again examined the slump.

"And you can fire it?" she asked, looking into the oven.

"Yes," I said.

"And hit anything?"

"I have hit a few things," I answered.

Carlos had the cruelty to add tersely: "But she did n't mean to hit the things she did hit."

Randy stood upright.

"Where is it?" she asked, with a painfully evident effort to be calm.

"In that bag."

"Is there anything in the bag that will make it go off?" she inquired, rather indefinitely.

"Not a thing."

"I don't see but what we are all right," she said with great cheerfulness, "and I guess I shan't dream of burglars to-night. It was mighty kind of you to think of your pistol."

A short time after I saw Randy take up the bag as if it had been the frailest of cut glass, and go out of the room with it. When she returned she moved about with a freedom that was almost joyous.

Of course it would devolve upon me to find that pistol before we went to bed. Meantime, I would try to give myself up to the joys of the slump, which was standing now on the back of the stove, while dough. nuts and pie and plain lobster were arriving on the supper-table.

As we drew around the board, and she poured the tea, Randy said:--

"I hear that there didn't either of ye want to be the one to git Mr. Simms's victuals for him. There ain't no doubt but he 'd ben a good provider--for himself. And I hear he 's got to have a wife before his sister gits married. He '1l probably find a good, respectable woman, too, that'll be glad to have him. I ain't no patience with women, but I've got more patience with women than I have with men."

We ate so freely of the huckleberry slump that it seemed likely that we might all dream of burglars.

When Carlos and I had retired to our little bedroom, which opened out of the parlor, she asked me if I didn't think I was rather careless in bringing that pistol.

There were reasons why I was somewhat sensitive on this subject, and I replied crossly. Then I left the room with the small kerosene hand-lamp, and began to search for the bag which held the weapon. Whatever other people might feel, I felt a good deal safer knowing I had a revolver near at hand. If we accepted the position of protectors to Randy Rankin that night, it seemed to me that we ought in some way to be able to protect. And the dog was forbidden.

CHAPTER XIII - BURLARIOUS

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