e kitchen
and stood beside the table, making a determined effort for self-control.
Suddenly the sound of her aunt's voice came from the living-room.

"What are you doing, Mary? Can I help you?"

For a second the girl hesitated, nails digging painfully into her palms.
Then she managed to find her voice.

"No thanks, dear. I'll be there in just a minute." Resolutely she took up
the saucepan and caddy and walked slowly toward the lighted doorway. She
felt that a glance at her face would probably tell Mrs. Archer that
something was wrong, and so, entering the living-room, she went straight
over to the fireplace. Kneeling on the hearth, she took the poker and made
a little hollow amongst the burning sticks in which she placed the covered
saucepan. When she stood up the heat had burned a convincingly rosy flush
into her cheeks.

"I was closing the shutters," she explained in a natural tone. "While the
water's boiling I think I'll do the same in the other rooms. Then we'll
feel quite safe and snug."

Mrs. Archer, who was arranging their supper on one end of the big table,
agreed briefly but made no other comment. When Mary had secured the
living-room door and windows, she took the four bedrooms in turn, ending
in the one whose incongruously masculine appointments had once aroused
the curiosity of Buck Green.

How long ago that seemed! She set her candle on the dresser and stared
around the room. If only she wasn't such a helpless little ninny!

"And I'm such a fool I wouldn't know how to use a revolver if I had it,"
thought the girl forlornly. "I don't even know what I did with Dad's."

Then, of a sudden, her glance fell upon the cartridge-belt hanging on
the wall, from whose pendant holster protruded the butt of an
efficient-looking six-shooter--Stratton's weapon, which, like everything
else in the room, she had left religiously as she found it.

Stepping forward, she took hold of it gingerly and managed to draw it
forth--a heavy, thirty-eight Colt, the barrel rust-pitted in a few places,
but otherwise in excellent condition. She had no idea how to load it, but
presently discovered by peering into the magazine that the shells seemed
to be already in place. Then all at once her eyes filled and a choking
little sob rose in her throat.

"Oh, if you were only here!" she whispered unevenly.

It would be hard to determine whether she was thinking of Stratton, that
dreamlike hero of hers, whose tragic death she had felt