“He only fired into the air—to frighten me,” explained Sara.
Her uncle looked at her curiously.
“And did he succeed?” he asked.
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.”