of
those present, had ever spoken so to Robert Grant Burns; no one had
ever dreamed of speaking thus to him. They had seen him when rage had
mastered him and for slighter cause; it was not an experience that one
would care to repeat.

Robert Grant Burns walked up to Jean as if he meant to lift her from
the bench and hurl her by sheer brute force out of his way. He stopped
so close to her that his shadow covered her.

"Are you going to get out of the way so we can go on?" he asked, in the
tone of one who gives a last merciful chance of escape from impending
doom.

"Are you going to explain why you're here, and apologize for your tone
and manner, which are extremely rude?" Jean did not pay his rage the
compliment of a glance at him. She was looking at the dainty beak of
the little brown bird, and was telling herself that she could not be
bullied into losing control of herself. These two women should not
have the satisfaction of calling her a crude, ignorant, country girl;
and Robert Grant Burns should not have the triumph of browbeating her
into yielding one inch of ground. She forced herself to observe the
wonderfully delicate feathers on the bird's head. It seemed more
content now in the little nest her two palms had made for it. Its heart
did not flutter so much, and she fancied that the tiny, bead-like eyes
were softer in their bright regard of her.

Robert Grant Burns came to a pause. Jean sensed that he was waiting
for some reply, and she looked up at him. His hand was just reaching
out to her shoulder, but it dropped instead to his coat pocket and
fumbled for his handkerchief. Her eyes strayed to Pete Lowry. He was
looking upward with that measuring glance which belongs to his
profession, estimating the length of time the light would be suitable
for the scene he had focussed. She followed his glance to where the
shadow of the kitchen had crept closer to the bench. Jean was not
stupid, and she had passed through the various stages of the kodak
fever; she guessed what was in the mind of the operator, and when she
met his eyes full, she smiled at him sympathetically.

"I should dearly love to watch you work," she said to him frankly.
"But you see how it is; Mr. Burns hasn't got hold of himself yet. If
he comes to his senses before he has a stroke of apoplexy, will you
show me how you run that thing?"

"You bet I will," the red-sweatered one promised her cheerfully.

"How much longer will it be bef