For Dick, bent on some marauding errand, had swooped down out of their sight, with a harsh cry that was answered immediately by the voice of some unseen person within the house. The blackened door burst open and there came through, first Dick, flying pell mell, then a dark figure outlined for a moment in the doorway. The brighter western sky showed beyond the roofless house, throwing the bent head and broad shoulders into sharp relief. The breeze, driving through the open door, swept forth a flutter of papers, the loose pages of a battered book, that spread far and wide across the grass.
"I beg your pardon," said a voice, "I didn't know any one was here, I thought it was only that mischievous Dick."
The speaker came forward. It was David Warren.
"I come up here to read in the evenings sometimes," he explained in some embarrassment. "It is so quiet and cool, and the sunset light lasts late here on the hill. There is a bit of ceiling left at the corner inside the wall that makes a dry place to keep same books. But I hadn't meant to be trespassing. I had laid my pocketknife on a stone and Dick's eye caught it at once."
He began to gather up the scattered papers which were drifting more and more wildly across the lawn. Betsey ran to give assistance while Miss Miranda
