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the battle of the working world, inevitably losing some of her innate gentle shyness. How she had wanted not to, had wanted to remain gentle, shy, and cloistered!

Again, how furious it always made her to hear slurring remarks uttered by masculine lips about the young women "who thrust themselves into the arena with men, preferring the emoluments of business life to the sweet duties of home!" Why did they not have justice enough to remember that home has an incurable habit of falling flat if somebody doesn't go out and earn rent? True, Charles Roycroft had made no slurring remarks, not of this particular description, that is—but she unerringly knew that he owned by national and racial inheritance a prejudice in favor of dependent, chaperoned maidens.

Another emotion was an anguished realization of the fact that she had not seen a girl for weeks-not a woman of any description. Of course she had had society. There had been her grandfather, and voluble Mr. Hopkins of the selling tongue, and the mailman, and serviceable Peter, and imperious Charles Roycroft-men of all ages, colors, and tempers-but nothing strictly human like a girl. "McAllister" had a dismally quarantined feeling. She had to brace herself to speak.

"Your sister?" she asked.

He faintly smiled and shook his head slowly, with infinite reminiscence.

"Not in the least my sister," he said, immediately putting the miniature away, safe from the profanation of sight and question. "She has brothers enough without me," he added, "blood brothers and acquired

ones."

Thought Laurie, "Of course she has; everybody in the world has a man to protect her, so it seems, except myself." The substance matter of this reverie caused her to say aloud, "Thank you for the pistol. I guess I'd better take it after all." She flinchingly did so, then eyed it from front to back, from top to bottom, with unveiled abhorrence. Training it pensively on the former owner's chest she asked, "What do you pull to shoot her?"

First Charles Roycroft stepped wisely and widely out of range. He then reached her side by a circuitous track, and began instructions.

"Hold it so."

Taking it, he illustrated.

Stenography had at least done one thing for hera person never had to tell her something or show her something twice.

She possessed herself again of the weapon and this time held it like a veteran.

"Sight by this mark on the barrel," he continued. "What do you mean by ‘sight'?”

He explained both subjectively and objectively, taking a sportsman's cautious pains.

"Talk is so boring," she mourned. "Can't I begin to pop at something?"

"Be careful not to jerk when you fire," he concluded firmly. "Aim at that white rose."

She obediently did so.

"Now try to hit it," he concluded. "Pull!"

Instead, she lowered the gun angrily.

"Fire into a rose? How exactly like a man, picking out the prettiest thing you can find to squash!" she flayed. "Why, I'd much sooner take a shot at you!"

"I quite believe it," he concurred coolly, "but substitute that loose shingle on the chicken house." Laurie aimed, fired, and split the shingle.

"What next?" she asked thirstily.

The tutor's interest in his face died out, leaving it distinctly indignant.

"You jolly well bunked me,” he acknowledged, chafing.

"Why, I didn't mean to!" she said, startled. She took the expression to stand for a back fire of some sort.

"You tricked me into believing you had had no practice when you are an expert shot," he translated. "Never fired before in my life," she avowed. "Perhaps then your success was accidental," he advanced.

"Accidental, your grandmother!" she observed, aroused to idiom. "Tell me what to aim at next."

"That pine cone." He indicated one on a distant tree.

"It jiggles," she murmured distressfully, after patient sighting. "I guess I'll have to pull just after it bobs, so as to catch it when it comes up."

She fired and the cone scattered in fragments. "By Jove," swore Roycroft softly.

Peter, who had suspended lacteal operations in order to give his entire attention to the firing line, now resumed spooning nourishment into the milk-mussed dot of a mouth.

“Li'l cat, yo' all better do what yo's bid," he earnestly advised it, "fo' yo' missis suttnly kin hit." And this is exactly what Roycroft wanted him and all other negroes to know.

"Folks have tried to tell me it was hard to shoot,"

cried Laurie, "when it's pie easy!" She was very gratified and very pretty about it. "All you have to do is to keep your nerve and use your brain."

"I'll send a man over to rectify that pump," said Roycroft, retiring permanently from the position of rifle instructor.

This little speech of his at once took the happy-golucky beam from her face. It went as blank as a slate under a wet sponge. Her reply was given with sudden, low-voiced entreaty.

"No, don't send anyone! You mustn't, really! I might as well speak out. I haven't any money-only what we need for food until we sell the oranges."

He realized even better than she the complete tragedy of this. For a moment he was actually dumb. Then he saw how he could compromise with fate—that is, he fancied he saw.

"Possibly I may be able to start the pump myself," he observed, going towards it.

She slipped the gun into her belt and blocked his way, threatening him sufficiently with the fire of her

eyes.

“Don't you dare touch it!" she cried indignantly. "As if I'd let you! As if I'd trade on your sympathy just because I'm a girl and poor, and a fool-yes, a fool! For I got myself into this land-fix by being too much of an idiot to look before I leaped. Do you imagine for one minute that I'd let you do work for me that I've just said I couldn't pay a negro for doing? A pretty wretch you must think me!"

Her excitement attracted him, kindling a trifle in re

sponse.

"Would you object very much if I thought you a pretty wretch?" he asked, trying a little experiment

in exuberance. Two debonair dimples appeared in his cheeks, though he would have defended the contrary with his life and honor. In his earlier youth more than one beloved classmate had graduated with a black eye on account of having unwisely mentioned the Roycroft dimple. They did not last long, those disdained clefts. They were gone now.

But they had emphasized a characteristic in contrast with his usual impassivity. They had indicated that he was a man who, when he did undertake to interest a woman, or to become interested, would succeed beyond the limit.

But this woman steeled herself.

"Would you have said that in that way to the girl in your watch, Mr. Roycroft?" she questioned, "That way," took flight with the dimples. He stiffened into a ramrod again.

"No," he answered.

Dishonesty was not one of his habits.

"I know you wouldn't," agreed Laurie. "You respect her because she doesn't work. I respect myself because I do work. Look at my hands." She displayed them to him. They were gashed with scratches in addition to being smeared with rust from the scapegrace pump. "The orange thorns have scored them. You said I'd have to hire a man to cut the water-suckers from my trees, that the water-suckers had to go. Well, they've gone! I did it myself-sheared a whole ten

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"You don't say," he commented, impressed.

"I do say. I've found out that man-jobs aren't much harder to do than woman-jobs, and are a lot livelier. Maybe I'll wring a little fun from the pump-who knows?"

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