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“The trap!” she said, smiling.

“Ah, the trap!” repeated Anthony, inanely.

“Certainly!” she said, with a hint of impatience. Then, as he still stared, she added quickly: “You’re the man from Peterson’s? From San Mateo? You came to fix it, didn’t you?”

“Not at all,” said Anthony, smiling. “I came from New York.”

Light dawned in the girl’s eyes. She gave a horrified laugh.

“Well, how stupid of me!” she ejaculated. “Of course, I thought you were. I’m expecting a man to fix the trap, any day, and you sent no name. I bought this affair a week ago; there’s a coon, or a fox, or something, that’s been coming down from the hills after my pullets; but it won’t work.”

“I don’t know anything about traps,” said Anthony.

He was wondering how he had best introduce himself. The vague campaign that he had outlined on those restless nights in the train would be useless here, he had decided. As he spoke, he absently touched the tangled chains and bolts with his foot.

“Don’t do that!” screamed Miss Mix.

At the same second there was a victorious convulsion of metal teeth, and Anthony found himself frantically jerking at his foot, which was fast in the trap.

“Oh, you’re caught! You are caught!” cried the girl, distressedly. “Oh, please don’t hurt yourself tugging that way–you can’t do it!”

Her eyes, full of concern and sympathy, met his for a second; then, suddenly, she broke into laughter.

“Why, confound the thing!” said Anthony, in pained surprise, as he struggled and twisted. “How does it open?”

“It DOESN’T!” choked Miss Mix, her mirth quite beyond control, as she gave various futile little tugs and twitches at the trap. “That’s the trouble! The key never has had the slightest effect. Oh, I will NOT laugh this way!” she upbraided herself sternly. “Bu–bu–but you did look so–” She abruptly turned her back upon him for a moment, facing him again with perfect calm, although with lashes still wet, and suspicious little dimples about her mouth. “Now, I’ll get you out of it immediately,” she assured him gravely; “and meanwhile I can’t tell you how sorry I am that–just sit on this box, you’ll be more comfortable. I’ll run and telephone a plumber, or some one.” She paused in the doorway. “But I don’t know your name?”

“Appropriately enough, it’s Fox,” said he, briefly; “Anthony Fox.”

Miss Mix gasped, opened her mouth, shut it without speaking, and gasped again. Then she sat down heavily on a box.

“Of New York–I see!” said she, but more as if speaking to herself than to him. “Tony’s father; he’s written to you, and you’ve come all the way from New York to break it off. I see!” Desperation seemed to seize her. “Oh, my heavenly day!” she ejaculated. “Why didn’t I think of this? This serves me right, you know,” she said seriously, bringing her attention to bear fully upon Anthony; “but let me tell you, Mr. Fox, that this is about the worst thing you could have done!”

“The worst!” said Anthony, dully.

He felt utterly stupefied.

“Absolutely,” said she, calmly. “You know you only hasten a thing like this by making an out-and-out fight of it. That’s no way to stop it!”

“Are you Miss Mix?” said Anthony, feebly.

“I am.” She nodded impatiently. “Sarah Mix.”

“Then you and my son–” Anthony pursued patiently. “Didn’t he write? Aren’t you–“

“Engaged? Certainly we are,” admitted the lady, with dignity. “And it would no more than serve you right if we got married, after all!” she added, with a sudden smile.

Anthony liked the smile. He smiled broadly in return.

“IF you got married! Do you mean you don’t intend to?”

“I see I’ll have to tell you,” said Miss Mix, suddenly casting hesitation to the winds. “Then we can talk. Yes, we’re engaged, Mr. Fox. What else could I do? Anthony’s twenty; one can’t treat him quite as if he were six. He’s absolutely unable to take care of himself; and I’ve always liked him–always! How COULD I see a girl like Mollie Temple–but of course you don’t know her. She’s with the ‘Giddy Middy’ company, playing in San Francisco now.”