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With a swift sweep of one slender hand, Miss Wiggin thrust back the sunbonnet, which, held by the loosely knotted ribbons, hung suspended on her shoulders, exposing a mass of wavy, golden-brown hair. At the same moment, with remarkable agility and grace, she half rose and half turned. On her knees, her right hand clasping the book, the fingers of her left hand lightly touching the ground, her gaze followed the shrinking young man, who was now fearfully watching the ominously growling dog. Surely this was unexpected and disappointing behavior for Reginald, the brave, who—in her novel—had unhesitatingly faced the most frightful perils for his lady fair.

Made suspicious by the actions of the stranger, Shep advanced, bristling and snapping. As if contemplating instant flight, the young man gave one hasty look around. The nearest fence was some six or eight rods away, and it did not promise to stop a ferocious and angry dog in pursuit of a fleeing fugitive, and there was no other refuge in sight.