Left to herself, Maggie coolly pulled off her long boots and
stockings, and comfortably opposed to the fire two very pretty feet
and ankles, whose delicate purity was slightly blue-bleached by
confinement in the tepid sea-water. The contrast of their waxen
whiteness with her blue woolen skirt, and with even the skin of her
sunburnt hands and wrists, apparently amused her, and she sat for
some moments with her elbows on her knees, her skirts slightly
raised, contemplating them, and curling her toes with evident
satisfaction. The firelight playing upon the rich coloring of her
face, the fringe of jet-black curls that almost met the thick sweep
of eyebrows, and left her only a white strip of forehead, her short
upper lip and small chin, rounded but resolute, completed a piquant
and striking figure. The rich brown shadows on the smoke-stained
walls and ceiling, the occasional starting into relief of the
scutcheons of brilliant plumage, and the momentary glitter of the
steel barrels, made a quaint background to this charming picture.
Sitting there, and following some lingering memory of her tramp on
the Marsh, she hummed to herself a few notes of the bugle call that
had impressed her--at first softly, and finally with the full pitch
of her voice.

Suddenly she stopped.

There was a faint and unmistakable rapping on the floor beneath
her. It was distinct, but cautiously given, as if intended to be
audible to her alone. For a moment she stood upright, her feet
still bare and glistening, on the otter skin that served as a rug.
There were two doors to the room, one from which her brother had
disappeared, which led to the steps, the other giving on the back
gallery, looking inland. With a quick instinct she caught up her