deep into her pockets, her straight young back very flat, and her head a
little tilted, so that her eyes might search the surly face beneath the
peaked cap.

They were arresting eyes--amazingly dark, "like two patches o' the sky
be night," as Brady described them long afterwards to a crony of his,
and they gazed up at the astonished poacher from a small, sharply angled
face, as delicately cut as a cameo.

"Put that gun down!" commanded an imperious young voice, a voice that
held something indescribably sweet and thrilling in its vibrant quality.
"What are you doing in these woods?"

Brady, recovering from his first surprise, lowered his gun, but answered
truculently--

"Never you mind what I'm doin'."

The girl pointed significantly to his distended pockets.

"I don't need to ask. Empty out your pockets and take yourself off. Do
you hear?" she added sharply, as the man made no movement to obey.

"I shan't do nothin' o' the sort," he growled. "You go your ways and
leave me to go mine--or it'll be the worse for 'ee." He raised his gun
threateningly.

The girl smiled.

"I'm not in the least afraid of that gun," she said tranquilly. "But you