“Well,” said Miss Van Gorder, “perhaps you’re right, dear.” Her eyes gleamed. “I _should_ have liked to try it just once more though,” she confided. “I feel certain that I could hit that tree over there if my eye wouldn’t _wink_ so when the thing goes off.” “Now, it’s winking eyes,” said Lizzie on a note of tragic chant, “but next time it’ll be bleeding corpses and—” Dale added her own protestations to Lizzie’s. “Please, darling, if you really want to practice, Billy can fix up some sort of target range—but I don’t want my favorite aunt assassinated by a ricocheted bullet before my eyes!” “Well, perhaps it would be best to try again another time,” admitted Miss Van Gorder. But there was a wistful look in her eyes as she gave the revolver to Dale and the three started back to the house. “I should _never_ have allowed Lizzie to know what I was doing,” she confided in a whisper, on the way. “A woman is perfectly capable of managing firearms—but Lizzie is really too nervous to live, sometimes.” “I know just how you feel, darling,” Dale agreed, suppressed mirth shaking her as the little procession reached the terrace. “But—oh,” she could keep it no longer, “oh—you did look funny, darling—sitting under that tree, with Lizzie on the other side of it making banshee noises and—” Miss Van Gorder laughed too, a little shamefacedly. “I must have,” she said. “But—oh, you needn’t shake your head, Lizzie Allen—I _am_ going to practice with it. There’s no reason I shouldn’t and you never can tell when things like that might be useful,” she ended rather vaguely. She did not wish to alarm Dale with her suspicions yet. “There, Dale—yes, put it in the drawer of the table—that will reassure Lizzie. Lizzie, you might make us some lemonade, I think—Miss Dale must be thirsty after her long, hot ride.” “Yes, Miss Cornelia,” said Lizzie, recovering her normal calm as the revolver was shut away in the drawer of the large table in the living-room. But she could not resist one parting shot. “And thank God it’s lemonade I’ll be making—and not bandages for bullet wounds!” she muttered darkly as she went toward the service quarters. Miss Van Gorder glared after her departing back. “Lizzie is really impossible sometimes!” she said with stately ire. Then her voice softened. “Though of course I couldn’t do without her,” she added. Dale stretched out on the settee opposite her aunt’s chair. “I know you couldn’t, darling. Thanks for thinking of the lemonade.” She passed her hand over her forehead in a gesture of fatigue. “I _am_ hot—and tired.” Miss Van Gorder looked at her keenly. The young face seemed curiously worn and haggard in the clear afternoon light. “You—you don’t really feel very well, do you, Dale?” “Oh—it’s nothing. I feel all right—really.” “I could send for Doctor Wells if—”