By the end of October, the golden month, and always beautiful in Virginia, things had shaken into routine. During that time suite Number 10 had become one of the most popular in the school, as well as one of the most attractive, for, to the intense satisfaction of the trio their belongings were in as perfect harmony as themselves, Beverly’s things being pink, Sally’s the softest green and Aileen’s all white and gold. Consequently all went merry as a marriage bell.

But there had been hours of intense longing upon Beverly’s part for the freedom of bygone days and Athol. The brother and sister had been entirely too united in every way to find perfect compensation in the companionship of others, however warm the friendships formed, and each missed the other sorely. Of course letters had been exchanged during the month, but letters are a poor substitute for the voice of those we love best. Only Mrs. Ashby realized how intense was the brother’s and sister’s longing to see each other. Archie, also, fumed under the enforced separation and vowed that “something was going to break loose mighty sudden if his people and Athol’s didn’t get busy and do something.”

Had Beverly been at liberty to ride Apache as formerly the ten miles separating the two schools would have meant merely a jolly cross country run, but she was only permitted to ride when the other girls rode, and under the supervision of a groom who was held responsible for his charges.

Nor had the boys been allowed to visit Beverly, the male sex being regarded by Miss Woodhull as a sort of natural enemy whose sole aim in life was to circumvent, deprive and rob hers of its just rights. Miss Woodhull was essentially a militant suffragette and her stanch admirers, Miss Baylis and Miss Stetson were her enthusiastic partisans. Miss Atwell, the teacher of esthetic dancing and posing, who came thrice weekly to instill grace into the graceless and emphasize it in those who were already graceful, sat, so to speak, upon the fence, undecided which way to jump. She inclined strongly to the strictly feminine attitude of dependence upon the stronger sex, but was wise to the advantage of keeping in touch with those occupying the seats of the mighty at Leslie Manor.

At Kilton Hall rules were less stringent. The boys could ride every afternoon if they chose and often did so, ranging the country far and wide. Many a time they had gone tearing past Leslie Manor when the girls were stived up within and been exasperated at being “so near and yet so far,” as an old song puts it. Hence Archie’s frame of mind, and his determination to change the existing state of affairs before long if possible. Letters sent home by the boys and those Beverly wrote to her mother were the seeds sown which the three hoped would later start the “something doing.” Meanwhile Beverly chafed under the restraint, and such chafing generally leads to some sort of an outbreak.

It was Wednesday afternoon, October twenty-ninth, and riding-lesson day. Every Wednesday and Saturday Andrew Jackson Jefferson, whose name was as queer a combination as himself, for he seemed to be about half horse, so wonderful was his understanding of those animals, and so more than wonderful theirs of him, took his “yo’ng sem’nary ladies a-gallopin’ th’oo de windin’s ob de kentry roads,” proud as a Drum Major of his charges.

And well he might be, for Andrew Jackson Jefferson had not only entire charge of the horses belonging to Leslie Manor, but he had bought them, and he knew good horseflesh. So the Leslie Manor horses as well as the half dozen boarded there by the students, were always a credit to the school. Their coats shone like satin, their hoofs were spick and span, no shoes ever clicked for want of the proverbial nail, fetlocks were trimmed like a bridegroom’s hair, and manes and forelocks brushed to the silkiness of a bride’s. Harness and bits were scrupulous. Jefferson knew his business.

When Apache was sent to Leslie Manor he was such a contrast to the other horses that Jefferson at first looked askance at him, but Apache was a wise little beast. As a preliminary move he gently nozzled Jefferson, then by way of showing him that he was not to be taken too seriously, he flew up into the air, executed a wild fling and descended upon the exact spot from which he had risen, which exhibition so tickled Jefferson that he grinned broadly and announced to his underlings:

“Dat’s some hawse! Yo’ hyar me! Befo’ he’s done been in dis hyre stable a week he gwine ter be eatin’ outer ma hand,” and Apache verified the statement by becoming Jefferson’s abject slave before four days had passed, and Beverly basked in reflected glory, for was she not Apache’s “Yo’ng Mist’ess?”

“Kyant tech dat chile nothin’ ’bout ridin’”, was Jefferson’s fiat when he saw Beverly astride her little mouse-colored and white mount. “She paht ob dat hawse!”

There had already been several riding lessons since school opened, and each time Jefferson’s delight in his newest charges increased. Born and brought up with the race, Beverly knew how to handle the negroes, and Jefferson as promptly became her slave as Apache had become his.

Now the prescribed route for these riding excursions was within a five-mile radius of the school. “No further,” said Miss Woodhull. Those bounds seemed safe from encroachment upon the part of the Kilton Hall students, even had their Wednesday and Saturday mornings and afternoons not been entirely given over to athletics, thus precluding excursions upon horseback.

As a rule Jefferson took out eight or ten girls, but this particular Wednesday afternoon several had obtained permission to go to town with Mrs. Bonnell to do some shopping, have some photographs taken, see the dentists and what not, so the riders were reduced to Sally, Aileen, Petty Gaylord, Hope MacLeod, a senior, and Beverly. All were well mounted and each was looking her best in her trim habit.

It was customary for the party to stop at the porte cochere to be inspected by Miss Woodhull, but on this particular afternoon Miss Woodhull was absent at a social function in the neighborhood and the duty devolved upon Miss Stetson, the teacher of mathematics, a strong-minded lady with very pronounced views. She dressed as nearly like a man as was compatible with law and decency, wore her hair short, and affected a masculine stride. She came from Miss Woodhull’s state.

Jefferson drew up his cavalcade of five and awaited the appearance of Miss Stetson whom he despised with all your true negro’s power to despise “white folks what doesn’t know dey is white.” Miss Stetson insisted upon calling him Mr. Jefferson, affirming that “the race never could be self-respecting or, indeed, wholly emancipated, until treated as the equals of the white race.”

She now strode out upon the piazza, cast a critical eye upon the horses, nodded and said:

“Very fit. Very fit. Quite in order. You are to be commended Mr. Jefferson, but er—isn’t there something a little peculiar in the appearance of your horses’ er—er—headgear? Their eyes seem to be exposed more than usual; and look somewhat bare, so to speak. Can it be possible that you have forgotten something?”

“Fergot?” queried Jefferson, looking from one animal to the other. “Ah cyant see nothin’ I’se done fergot, Miss Ste’son. What it look lak ain’t on de hawses, ma’am?”

“Why their eyes seem so prominent. They seem to see too much, er—”

Beverly was attacked with a sudden paroxysm of coughing. Jefferson nearly disgraced himself, but managed to stammer:

“We doesn’t ingen’ally put blinders on de saddle hawses, Miss, but ef yer says so I’ll tak ’em long back ter de stables an’ change de saddle headstalls fer de kerridge ones, tho’ it sure would look mighty cur’ous.”

“No! No! Certainly not. It was merely a remark in passing. You are the better judge of the requirements I dare say,” and Miss Stetson beat a hasty retreat, entirely forgetting to warn her charges against venturing beyond bounds.

Could she have seen Beverly’s lips set she might have grown suspicious. The riding party started, Jefferson muttering:

“Ma Lawd! dat ’oman suah do make me tired. Blinders on ma saddle hawses! Huh! ‘Mr. Jefferson’. Reckon I bettah tek ter callin’ her Sis’ Angeline,” Angeline being Miss Stetson’s christian name.

When the grounds of the school were left a few miles behind her Beverly drew up to Sally’s side and said significantly:

“She did not tell us to keep within bounds.”

“She forgot to. She was too busy missing the blinders,” laughed Sally. Beverly laughed softly and continued:

“You girls hold in your horses when we’ve gone a little further. I want to ride on ahead with Jefferson. I’ve a word to say and I’ve an idea he is in a receptive mood.”

“What are you up to, Bev?” asked Aileen.

“Just watch out. We’ll take a new route today unless I’m much mistaken,” and touching Apache lightly with her heel she cavorted to Jefferson’s side. He had been too absorbed in his thoughts of Miss Stetson to leave room for any others: Your darkie is not unlike a horse in that respect; his brain is rarely capable of holding two ideas at once. Perhaps that explains why darkies and horses are usually in such accord.

As Apache careened against Jumbo’s side the big horse gave a plunge forward which jerked Jefferson’s wits back to his surroundings. That was exactly what Beverly wished.

“Lor’ Miss Bev’ly, you done scare Jumbo an’ me foolish,” he exclaimed, striving to bring Jumbo down to his usual easy pace, for the tall hack had resented the little broncho’s familiarity, though he could not know that his own grandsire and Apache’s were the same.

“Jefferson, will you do something to please me this afternoon?” she asked eagerly.

“I shore will if it aint gwine ter get me into no fuss wid de Misses,” temporized Jefferson.

“It won’t get you into any fuss with anybody. Miss Woodhull is not at home and Miss Stetson was too busy trying to find out where the horses had lost their blinders to tell us not to take the road to Kilton Hall.”

Jefferson almost chortled.

“So, when we come to that road will you turn down it and leave the rest to me? And don’t be surprised or frightened at anything Apache may do.”

“I aint scared none at what you an’ dat hawse doin’. He’s got sense and—” added Jefferson with concession—“so has you. I aint got no time ter be a troublin’ ’bout you-all. It’s dese yo’ng ladies I has ter bat my eyes at; an’ dey shore do keep me busy sometimes. Now what I tell you? Look at dat?” and as though in sympathy with Beverly’s schemes, Chicadee, the little mare Petty Gaylord was riding chose that moment to shy at some leaves which fluttered to the ground and, of course, Petty shrieked, and then followed up the shriek with the “tee-hee-hee,” which punctuated every tenth word she spoke whether apropos or not.

That was exactly the cue Beverly needed. A slight pressure of her knee upon Apache’s side was sufficient. He was off like a comet, and to all intents and purposes entirely beyond his rider’s control.

Sally and Aileen laughed outright. Petty stopped her giggle to scream: “Oh, she’s being run away with!”

“Not so much as it would seem,” was Hope MacLeod’s quiet comment as she laid in place a lock of Satin Gloss’s mane, and quieted him after his sympathetic plunge.

“Well ef she is, she is, but I’m bettin’ she knows whar she a-runnin’ at,” said Andrew Jackson Jefferson more quietly than the situation seemed to warrant. “But just de same I’m thinkin’ we might as well fool oursefs some,” and he hastened his pace, the others doing likewise. It would never do to let one of his charges be run away with and not make an effort to save her from a possible calamity.