She bestowed a little grin of understanding upon him.

"He did," she averred gravely. Then, as Patrick's bushy eyebrows came
together in a bristling frown, she added: "But he remained in ignorance
of the fact."

The frown was replaced by a twinkle.

"That's all right, then," came the contented answer.

"All the same, I really _was_ frightened," she persisted.
"It gave me quite a nasty turn, as the servants say. I don't
think"--meditatively--"that I enjoy being shot at. Am I a funk, my
uncle?"

"No, my niece"--with some amusement. "On the contrary, I should
define the highest type of courage as self-control in the presence of
danger--not necessarily absence of fear. The latter is really no more
credit to you than eating your dinner when you're hungry."

"Mine, then, I perceive to be the highest type of courage," chuckled
Sara. "It's a comforting reflection."

It was, when propounded by Patrick Lovell, to whom physical fear was
an unknown quantity. Had he lived in the days of the Terror, he would
assuredly have taken his way to the guillotine with the same gay,
debonair courage which enabled the nobles of France to throw down their
cards and go to the scaffold with a smiling promise to the other players
that they would continue their interrupted game in the next world.