the farm!  No; she would attend to this herself.  She was not in the least afraid.  She knew pretty well what ugly face would look up at her when she spoke; for she felt sure that the slouching, ungainly figure was that of Simon Hartley.  Her heart burned with indignation against the graceless, thankless churl who could rob the man on whose charity he had been living for two years.  She made a step forward, with words of righteous wrath on her lips; then paused, as a new thought struck her.  This man was an absolute ruffian; and though she believed him to be an absolute coward also, still he must know that she and Dame Hartley were alone in the house.  He must know also that the farmer was at some distance, else he would not have ventured to do this.  What should she do? she asked herself again.  She looked round her, and her eyes fell upon the old horse-pistol which rested on a couple of hooks over the door.  The farmer had taken it down only a day or two before, to show it to her and tell her its story.  It was not loaded, but Simon did not know that.  She stepped lightly up on a chair, and in a moment had taken the pistol down.  It was a formidable-looking weapon, and Hildegarde surveyed it with much satisfaction as she turned once more to enter the kitchen.  Unloaded as it was, it gave her a feeling of entire confidence; and her voice was quiet and steady as she said: 

“Simon Hartley, what are you doing to your uncle’s desk?”

The man started violently and turned round, his hands full of papers, which he had taken from one of the drawers.  He changed color when he saw “the city gal,” as he invariably termed Hilda, and he answered sullenly, “Gitt’n someth’n for Uncle.”

“That is not true,” said Hildegarde, quietly, “I have heard your uncle expressly forbid you to go near that desk.  Put those papers back!”

The man hesitated, his little, ferret eyes shifting uneasily from her to the desk and back again.  “I guess I ain’t goin’ to take orders from no gal!” he muttered, huskily.

“Put those papers back!” repeated Hildegarde sternly, with a sudden light in her gray eyes which made the rascal step backward and thrust the papers hurriedly into the drawer.  After which he began to bluster, as is the manner of cowards.  “Pooty thing, city gals comin’ hectorin’ round with their airs an’—­”

“Shut the drawer!” said Hildegarde, quietly.

But Simon’s sluggish blood was warmed by his little bluster, and he took courage as he reflected that this was only a slight girl, and that no one else was in the house except “Old Marm,” and that many broad meadows intervened between him and the farmer’s stout arm.  He would frighten her a bit, and get the money after all.

“We’ll see about that!” he said, taking a step towards Hilda, with an evil look in his red eyes.  “I’ll settle a little account with you fust, my fine lady.  I’ll teach you to come spyin’ round on me this way.  Ye ain’t give me a civil word sence ye come here, an’ I’ll pay ye—­”