“Now you know it is really I,” she said crisply, “you might at least offer me a chair.” At that the spell of our amazement left us and we all sprang to our feet. She seated herself placidly to the right of the fireplace. “I hear your port is excellent,” she said laughingly. Before Case could hand her the glass she wavered a little in the chair, but a mere swallow revived her. “I had not anticipated,” she said, “so startling a reception.” We stood about in awkward silence. “Pray ask your guests to be seated, Cousin Cassius,” she begged. “I did not mean to disturb your gaiety.” We took our chairs, but those on her side of the table were turned outward toward the fireplace, where Case stood facing her. “I owe you an explanation,” she said easily. “Milly Wilberforce is staying with me and she bet me a box of Maillard’s that I would not pay you a call. As I never take a dare, as the weather is fine, and as we have all your guests for chaperons, I thought a brief call between cousins could do no harm.” “It has not,” said Case fervently; “but it very nearly did. And now will you let me escort you home? The Judge will be anxious about you.” “Papa doesn’t know I am here, of course,” she said. “When he finds out, I’ll quiet him. If you won’t come to see me, at least I have once come to see you.” Case held the door wide for her, shut it behind him, and left us staring at the bullet hole in the door frame. One morning of the following spring Case was driving me townward from Shelby Manor, when, not a hundred feet in front of us, Mary Kenton’s buggy entered the pike from a cross-road. As it turned, mare, vehicle and all went over sideways with a terrific crash. Mary must have fallen clear for the next instant she was at the mare’s head. Case did succeed in holding his fiery colts and in pulling them to a stand-still alongside the wreck, but it was all even he could do. I jumped out, meaning to take the colts’ bits and let Case help Mary. But she greeted me imperiously. “Cousin Jack, please come sit on Bonnie’s head.” I took charge of Bonnie in my own fashion and she stood up entirely unhurt. “How on earth did you come to do it, Mary?” Colonel Case wondered, for she was a perfect horsewoman. “Accidents will happen,” she answered lightly, “and I am glad of this one. You have really spoken to me, and that is worth a hundred smashes.” “But I wrote to you,” he protested. “I wrote to you and explained.” “One letter,” she sniffed contemptuously. “You should have kept on, you silly man, I might have answered the fifth or sixth or even the second.” He stared at her and no wonder for she was fascinatingly coquettish. “I don’t mind Jack a bit, you know,” she went on. “Jack is my loyal knight and unfailing partisan. He keeps my secrets and does everything I ask of him. For instance, he will not demur an atom now when I ask him to throw Bonnie’s harness into the buggy and ride her to town for me.