There came into the bright grey eyes of Miss Nellie Million an angry look that I had once seen there when an unwise milk-boy had tried to convince our thrifty little maid-of-all-work that he had given her sixpennyworth instead of the bare threepennyworth that filled the little cardboard vessel which she held in her hand! For I believe that at the bottom of her heart "little Million" is still as thrifty, still as careful, still as determined that she won't be "done"! In the matter of clothes she has, of course, allowed herself for once to loose her firmly screwed-on little dark head. But now that the trousseau of new clothes is bought the brief madness had left her. She is again the same Million who once said to me at home: "Extravagant! That is a thing I could never be!" In a voice of the old Million she demanded sharply of the quite prosperous-looking, well-dressed and well-fed young man in front of her: "Whatever in the wide world would you do with all that money, supposing you had it?" "Well, I should not waste it, I guess," retorted the young man. "In fact, it would be put to a considerably bigger purpose than what it would if you had kept it, to buy yourself candies and hair-ribbon and whatever you girls do with money when it gets into your little hands. I want that money," here his voice grew more serious than before, "for an Object!" "I want that money for an object," repeated Miss Million's American cousin. And then he went on, at last, to tell us what "the object" was. It took a long time. It was very complicated. It was full of technical terms that were absolute Greek to me, as well as to Million. There she sat in the big basket-chair, with the coloured cushions behind her dark head; her grey eyes wide open, and fixed, defensively, upon the face of this young man with a story to tell. To cut it short, it was this. About a year ago Mr. Hiram P. Jessop had left off being manager of the pork factory belonging to the late Samuel Million because of his other work. He was, he said, "no factory boss by nature." He was an inventor. He had invented a machine--yes! This was where the technical terms began raining thick and fast upon our bewildered ears--a machine for dropping bombs from aeroplanes---- "Bombs? Good heavens alive!" interrupted Miss Million, with a look of real horror on her little face. "D'you mean them things that go off?" "Why, I guess I hope they'd go off," returned the young man with the shrewd and courteous smile. "Certainly that would be the idea of them--to go off! Why, yes!" "Then--are you," said Million, gazing reproachfully upon him, "one of these here anarchists?" He shook his mouse-coloured head. "Do I look like one, Cousin Nellie? Nothing further from my thoughts than anarchy. The last thing I'd stand for." "Then whatever in the wide world d'you want to go dropping bombs for?" retorted my young mistress. "Dropping 'em on who, I should like to know?" "On the enemy, I guess." "Enemy?"