ringing laugh were borne to them.

“Yonder comes the Woodbine bunch, I’ll bet a dollar, and they’re sure enough a-hittin’ it up, too. Reckon that young one of the old Admiral’s is a-settin’ the pace, too. She’s a clipper, all right,” commented a man seated upon a tilted-back chair, his hat pushed far back upon his shock head. He was guiltless of coat, and his jean trousers were hitched high about his waist by a pair of wool suspenders.

Hardly had he ceased speaking when three horses came pounding into view, the leader ridden by a girl about fifteen years of age. The animal was a little mouse-colored beastie with white markings and eyes which gave a pretty strong hint of a good bit of broncho disposition to which the markings also pointed. He was lithe and agile as a cat and moved with something of the sinuous gliding of that animal, rather than the bounding motions of his eastern-bred mates. The two horses running neck and neck behind him were evidently blooded animals, and all three were a-lather from the pace set by their leader, all mud-bespattered to the point of being wholly disreputable, for a shower the previous night had left many a wide puddle in the road.

The girl leading rode as only a southern girl, accustomed to a saddle all her life, can ride. The saddle was of the Mexican type, but the headstall was the lightest possible, with a simple snaffle bit, even that seeming almost superfluous for she guided her mount more by the motions of her body than the bridle. She held the reins at arm’s length in her left hand, while with her right she waved above her head a soft felt hat, her banner of defiance and derision of her pursuers. Swaying ever so slightly in her saddle, she brought her wiry little mount up to the platform, and slid from his back as snow slides from a hillside. The reins were tossed over his head and the race was ended.

Running across the porch she nodded or bowed comprehensively to all seated or standing upon it—the greeting accompanied by a sunny, happy smile which revealed faultlessly pretty teeth.

As she disappeared within the store her friends came rushing up to the platform, shouting after her as they drew up their horses:

“Here, come back! Hold on! That’s no fair, even if you did beat. We’re going to decide the kind of candy. You’ll do us out of our last cent if we let you get it.”

“Of course! Why not?” was called back, banteringly.

“Do you think I’m going to run Apache off his legs, risk breaking my neck and then not have the say-so in the end? I reckon not. It’s just got to be chocolates this time. Cinnamon suckers are all right enough for a little race, but this was a two-mile go-it-for-all-you’re-worth one, and besides, you’d better be nice to me, while you have the chance, because you won’t have me with you very much longer.”

“Ah, cut that out. We know it well enough. You needn’t rub it in,” was the chorus of answers.

“Shut up, Bev,” added the taller of the two boys, a fair haired lad of sixteen or seventeen. He was a handsome boy, with eyes of such a deep blue that they seemed violet, wavy golden hair and a fine, clear skin, though it was tanned many shades darker than nature intended it to be. The nose was clean cut, and the mouth and chin indicated considerable strength of character. He carried himself as though very sure of his place in the world, and his intention to hold it. Nevertheless, the face was a cheery, happy one.

The other boy was so like the girl that it was laughable. Exchange their garments and it would have puzzled the cleverest person to tell “t’other-from-which.” To label them twins would have been superfluous. Nature had attended to that little matter fifteen years earlier in their lives, and even their old mammy used to say: “Now don’ none of yo’ other chillern go ter projectin’ wid dem babies whilst I’s got my haid turn’d ’way, cause if yo’ does dey’s gwine fer to get mixed pintedly, an’ den I’s gwine ter have ter spend a hull hour mebbe a-gettin’ my mind settled pon which is which again.”

Moreover, the fifteen years of daily association had only served to consummate what Dame Nature had so ably begun, for the girl and the boy almost thought and felt in unison. In all those years they had hardly been separated for a day. That is no further than a strict quarantine beneath the same roof had separated them, and that had been entirely Beverly’s doings. At five she began the performance by contracting whooping-cough; at seven she tried mumps; at nine turned a beautiful lobster hue from measles, and at eleven capped the climax by scaring the family nearly to death with scarlet fever, and thereby causing her grandfather, Admiral Ashby, to exclaim:

“Lord bless my soul, Beverly, you are worse than the potato bugs; they do skip the fatal second year now and again, but you never let up.”

Perhaps this criticism had called a halt in her performances in the line of contagious diseases, for since the scarlet fever scare she had quit frightening the family into spasms, and at fifteen was as charming, healthy, and tantalizing a bit of girlhood as one could wish to see, though about as much of a tomboy as one could find.

While Beverly Ashby is squabbling good-naturedly with her brother and chum, suppose we take this opportune moment in which to learn something about the trio?

Beverly and her brother, Athol, had elected to enter this world exactly fifteen years and four months prior to the opening of this story. They also chose the thirteenth of May, 1897, to spring their first surprise upon their family by arriving together, and had managed to sustain their reputations for surprising the grownups by never permitting a single year to pass without some new outbreak, though it must be admitted that Beverly could certainly claim the greater distinction of the two in that direction.

“Woodbine,” their home, had been the family seat for many generations. It had seen many a Seldon enter this world and many a one depart from it. It had witnessed the outgoing of many brides from its broad halls, and seen many enter to become its mistress. It was a wonderful old place, beautiful, stately, and so situated upon its wooded upland that it commanded a magnificent view of the broad valley of Sprucy Stream. Over against it lay the foothills of the blue, blue mountains, the Blue Ridge range, and far to the westward the peaks of the Alleghanies peeped above the Massanutton range nearer at hand.

The valley itself was like a rare painting. The silvery stream running through the foreground, the rich woodlands and fertile fields, the marvelous lights and shadows ever holding the one looking upon it entranced. And all this lay before the broad acres of Woodbine, so named because that graceful vine hung in rich festoons from every column, gallery, portico and even the eaves to which it had climbed, a delicate gray-green adornment in early spring, a rich, darker tone in midsummer, and a gorgeous crimson in the autumn.

It was a spacious old mansion and would have been considered a large one even in the north, where, during the past fifty years, palaces have sprung into existence under the misnomer of “cottages.” Happily, it did not tower up into the air as many of the so-called cottages do, but spread itself comfortably over the greensward, the central building being the only one ambitious enough to