"Yes, ma'am. At least--she not shoot yet but she say she
going to soon."

"But, good heavens, Billy--shooting what?"

"Shotting pistol," said Billy, his yellow mask of a face preserving
its impish repose. He waved his hand. "You go srubbery. You see."

The scene that met Dale's eyes when she finally found the "srubbery"
was indeed a singular one. Miss Van Gorder, her back firmly planted
against the trunk of a large elm tree and an expression of ineffable
distaste on her features, was holding out a blunt, deadly looking
revolver at arm's length. Its muzzle wavered, now pointing at the
ground, now at the sky. Behind the tree Lizzie sat in a heap,
moaning quietly to herself, and now and then appealing to the saints
to avert a visioned calamity.

As Dale approached, unseen, the climax came. The revolver steadied,
pointed ferociously at an inoffensive grass-blade some 10 yards from
Miss Van Gorder and went off. Lizzie promptly gave vent to a shrill
Irish scream. Miss Van Gorder dropped the revolver like a hot potato
and opened her mouth to tell Lizzie not to be such a fool. Then she
saw Dale--her mouth went into a round O of horror and her hand
clutched weakly at her heart.

"Good heavens, child!" she gasped. "Didn't Billy tell you what I
was doing? I might have shot you like a rabbit!" and, overcome
with emotion, she sat down on the ground and started to fan herself
mechanically with a cartridge.