fertile little mind to work on the
problem. She settled into the chair and lowered the foot on which she
was sitting. She was intently regarding the torn slipper, when she heard
distinctly an unpleasant sound. A sound which gathered volume, till
Suzanna realized that something or someone was approaching the library.
She resumed her former position, and waited!

The brocade curtains were drawn aside; a little man in a sort of uniform
stood with head bowed, while a large man limped into the room.

"Fix my chair, you simpering idiot," he shouted at the little man, "and
then take yourself off!"

The small man glided to a great easy chair near the fireplace. He heaped
pillows in it, stood aside while the loud-voiced one lowered himself,
groaningly, into the downy nest. Then the valet disappeared. Suzanna
involuntarily glanced at his feet. Did he move on velvet casters?

A moment, then the big man gave a twist of pain. A rheumatic dart had
seized him, had Suzanna known, but she could not know, and a little
exclamation was drawn from her. At the sound, the other occupant of the
room started and glanced around till finally his eyes came to rest upon
the small girl in a large chair thrust well away in a shadowy corner of
the room.

"Well!" at length he ejaculated. And then: "Are you one of the Sunday
School class?"

"Yes, I'm Suzanna Procter. The other little girls have gone out into the
garden."

He grunted and continued to glare fiercely at her. But Suzanna knew no
fear. She felt strangely a sudden high sense of exhilaration, just as
once when she had been caught in a brilliant electric storm. Some
element in her rose and responded to the big flashes; just as she had
responded to Drusilla's play of imagination. Now a force was roused in
her that claimed kinship with the big, thunderous man opposite. She sat
up very straight, and stared right back at him. Then she said very
calmly:

"You look like an eagle!"

"Then you're afraid of me!" He flung the words at her with a certain
triumph.

"I'm not! I don't like the way you shout, but _I'm_ not afraid of you."

He sank back among his pillows, but did not take his eyes from her face.
At last he asked: "What are you sitting bent up that way for? Are you
hiding anything?"

Suzanna flushed. "You're not supposed to ask a visitor if she's hiding
anything; especially when her leg's asleep and she's suffering."

A spasm crossed his face. Perhaps he was trying to smile. He