se, entirely unharmed.

But other matters were claiming Mr. Peaslee's attention. Out
from behind the screen formed by the asparagus plumes, the
currant-bushes, the sunflowers, and the lilacs, all of which
grew not so far from the spot on the fence where the Calico
Cat had been sitting, fell a man!

Solomon had a mere glimpse. Standing behind taller bushes, the
stranger had fallen behind lower ones, and only while his falling
figure was describing the narrow segment of a circle had he been
visible.

But the glimpse was enough. Mr. Peaslee's jaw dropped, his face
turned white. But the next moment he gave a great sigh of relief. He
saw the man rise and slip into cover of the bushes, and so disappear
through the orchard. He had not, then, killed the fellow!

Relieved of that fear, he thought of himself. What would people say
were he charged with firing at a man--he, a respectable citizen, a
director in the bank, a grand juror? They must not know!

He silently laid the gun back against the window-sill, turned with
infinite care, and tiptoed quickly back into the sitting-room, into
the hall, into the street.

Not a soul was visible. Nevertheless, such was Mr. Peaslee's
agitation, so strongly did he feel the need of silence, that,
placing a shaking hand upon the fence to steady himself, he tiptoed
along the sidewalk all the way to his own house. There the fear of
his wife struck him. He was in no condition to meet that sharp-eyed,
quick-tongued lady!

He softly entered the front door and penetrated to the dark parlor,
where, as no one would ever enter it except for a funeral or a
wedding, he felt safe from intrusion. There he sank down upon the
slippery horsehair lounge, and, staring helplessly at the severe
portrait of Mrs. Peaslee, done by a lugubrious artist in crayon,
wiped the sweat from his forehead and tried to collect his scattered
faculties.

"Whew!" he breathed. "Whew!"

[Illustration: Cat licking paw.]

II

Meanwhile, at the Edwards house, life had grown suddenly
interesting.

When the report of the gun reached Jim, he had stopped pawing over
the apple barrel, and was sitting on the upper step of the staircase
at the extreme end of the loft, slowly munching an apple and
thinking.

Jim was a healthy, active boy, with no more sense than naturally
belongs to a boy of fifteen, and with a lively imagination, which
had been most unfortunately overstimulated. Without a mother, and
with a father