When Beverly swept into her room her thoughts were like a seething cauldron; One instant one impression boiled to the surface, only to be submerged the very next by others surging to the top. She could not think connectedly. Everything seemed jumbled pell mell in her brains. Just one incident took definite shape: She had been shaken like a naughty child and told that she was lying. And all because every instinct of honor and justice forbade her betraying a class-mate, even though she entertained for her little less than contempt. And the effect of Miss Woodhull’s act was very much as though a man had deliberately walked up to Admiral Seldon, accused him of lying and slapped his face.

During the six months which she had spent at Leslie Manor, Beverly Ashby had been no more nor less than just herself: neither better nor worse than the average girl. But for her six months in a boarding-school presided over by a woman who had never known any real girlhood, or girlhood’s exuberance, was an experience far different than for the average girl. Miss Woodhull had grown more and more iconoclastic, and more of a law unto herself with each advancing year. She had become as adamant to all natural impulses, and apparently dead to all affection. Bitterly intolerant of suggestion, advice, or even the natural laws of ethics. With each year she had grown more difficult to live with, and less and less fitted to govern growing girls. But in the beginning the school had established a reputation for the thoroughness of its curriculum and its instruction, as well as for its discipline, and there is little doubt that some of the girls which had come to it during the past thirty years were in need of some discipline.

But Beverly Ashby was not of the type who required discipline of the order Miss Woodhull believed in. Beverly had lived for more than fifteen years under the discipline of love and good judgement, and had developed fairly well in that atmosphere. Her mother had never reproved or punished her in anger. The Admiral, while adoring her, was “boss of the ship,” and both she and Athol had always recognized that fact. His word was law. Moreover, she had always been treated as a reasoning human being invariably trusted; a nice code of honor having been established from the moment the twins could understand the meaning of that fine old word. And that is much earlier in children’s lives than a good many grownups believe.

No wonder an outraged little mortal now sat at her window, her heart beating tattoo, her temples throbbing, her cheeks blazing, her eyes flashing, but her hands clenched and icy cold. There she sat until all sounds in the big house were hushed. She was as rigid as though carved from marble, even though her breath came and went pantingly.

The hand upon the clock in the stable tower crept from hour to hour, the bell telling off the half-hours. She neither saw nor heard. Then came the twelve long deliberate strokes announcing the witching hour. At the first stroke Beverly started into life. By the time the last had sounded the pretty pink dinner gown she had been wearing lay in a tumbled heap upon the bed where she had tossed it.

By this time the moon which had been pouring its flood of light into her room was dropping behind the tall trees and the room was growing dark. The steam heat had long since died down and the room was cold. She was entirely unconscious of physical conditions. Silently as a shadow she worked, and with the swiftness of a cloud scudding before a gale of wind. In ten minutes the room was in perfect order and she was garbed in her stout riding-boots, heavy riding skirt, a warm flannel shirt waist and heavy sweater. Her wool skating cap was pulled tight down about her ears, and she carried her riding crop in her gloved hands.

Gently raising her window she slipped out upon the piazza roof, crawled upon her hands and knees to the edge, tossed her riding crop to the ground and then, boy-fashion slid down the piazza pillar as easily as Athol could have done it. Picking up the riding crop she sped across the lawn to the stable, well hidden by the foliage.

Andrew Jackson Jefferson and his two assistants slept in a little cottage behind the stable. The stable door was locked but a small window at the side had been left open for ventilation. Monkey-wise she scrambled up and through it. A low nickering from the horses greeted her; they knew her at once. Apache was contentedly munching his hay. Horses sleep or eat capriciously. To slip on his bridle, adjust and cinch his saddle took but a few minutes. Then she led him from his stall, silently unbarred the big doors, led him outside, again closed the doors carefully, and mounted him. The night was clear and cold. The moon, though now well toward the western mountains, still made it bright. Not a sound had Beverly uttered for over two hours, but now, leaning forward she clasped both arms around the little broncho’s neck, rested her face against his mane, and whispered:

“Apache, no Seldon or Ashby can ever be told that they are lying. Do you understand? We are going back to people who don’t say such things. It’s a long distance, and I don’t know the way very well I may get lost, but I don’t believe that you will. Take me safely home, Apache. Please, please take me home to dear old Woodbine and mother and Uncle Athol and Mammy Riah and Athol and—and everybody I love.”

A little sob ended the entreaty, and as though he understood every word she had spoken Apache gave a neigh loud enough to waken the Seven Sleepers.

Beverly clapped her hand across his nostrils as she cried:

“Oh, you mustn’t! You will wake everybody up! Go!” and with a bound Apache went, but as though he now fully understood he swept like a shadow across the lawn, out through a side gate and down the pike. Jefferson on his cot in the cottage roused enough to mutter:

“Dat hawse a-hollerin’. I bettah get up an’ see——” and then resumed his snore just where Apache’s farewell had interrupted it. And out in the great lonely, silent night the little horse sped away like the wind. For a mile Beverly let Apache gang his ain gait, then she drew him down to the steady lope which he could keep up for hours without tiring.

The lines: “But there is a road from Winchester town, A good broad highway leading down,” might have been written of the first five miles of the road Beverly was following, and which led to Front Royal. Those miles were covered in less than half an hour. But over thirty still lay ahead and some of them would have been pretty rough riding even in summer time and with the roads in good condition.

The moon was now dropping behind the distant range of the great North Mountains, the air was chill and penetrating, and the dense darkness which precedes the dawn enveloped all the world. Front Royal, save for a few scattered, flickering lights, lay in absolute darkness. Beverly drew a quick breath and shut her teeth hard. From Front Royal to Luray her way must be on dead reckoning and Apache’s incomprehensible instinct, and those miles seemed to Beverly to be double the length of ordinary miles. Still, she knew, that she could not go far astray if she kept between the railroad and the river, so plucking up her courage she fled through the sleeping town like a wraith. Once beyond it the roads branched and her first doubt had to be settled. Dismounting, she went close to the stone mile post and tried to read the sign. She managed to make out the name, but it might as well have been Greek. She knew nothing of the town indicated three miles beyond.

“Apache,” she said desperately, “do you know that it’s up to you?” Then she looked to her saddle cinch and her stirrup straps, took the little beast’s head in her arms and hugged him, and kissed his velvety muzzle. “Yes, it’s up to you. You’ve got to pull out for Woodbine and Uncle Abel somehow.”

Perhaps Uncle Abel’s name was the pass word. At any rate, Apache nuzzled Beverly, neighed, pawed the ground impatiently, and indicated in every possible way that he would do all any horse could.

“All right then. Now make good!” and with a light spring she was again in the saddle.

There is no time to dwell in detail upon that dark, cold, terrible ride between Front Royal and Luray. Beverly had never been so cold in all her life. She let Apache choose his own way, and take his own gait, which was now slow and doubtful, and then like an arrow, as his confidence grew. Luray was reached in time and skirted, then all was plain sailing to Sprucy Branch fourteen miles beyond. Apache had often been to Luray and knew every inch of that road, but Beverly was by that time nearly numb from the cold. Then:

Three-thirty A. M. had just been struck by the ship’s clock near the head of Admiral Seldon’s bed, the “seven bells” rousing him slightly. He had never ceased counting time by “watches,” and as sure as “morning watch” drew near he would waken. The habits of early years are not readily forsaken.

The faintest suggestion of dawn was visible over the Blue Ridge when, instead of turning over again and settling down for his last, snug morning nap, the old gentleman started wide awake and keenly alert.

“Had he heard a horse neigh?” Impossible! The stables were too far from his bedchamber for any such sound to reach him. “Reckon I must have been dreaming of Beverly and her little skallawag,” he said softly, and was about to settle down once more when a neigh, loud, clear and insistent, pierced the crisp morning air.

“What the ——?” he cried, springing out of bed with surprising agility for his years, and switching on the electric lights. Hurrying to the window which commanded the sweep of the driveway he peered out. In the faint light the indistinct outline of a horse was visible.

“Now which of those young devils of colts has escaped?” was his query, as he hastily donned his clothes, and started down stairs.

But that neigh had been heard by others also, and as the Admiral reached the end of the hall Mrs. Ashby came from her bedroom arrayed in bath robe and bed slippers.

“What is it?” she asked.

“The Lord only knows. One of those confounded colts broken loose I dare say, and if it is I’ll crack Uncle Abel’s head for him,” and away he hurried.

But Uncle Abel, who possessed six instead of five senses, the sixth being “horse sense” had heard that neigh, too, and the ceremony of his robing requiring less time than the Admiral’s, he was already speeding toward that sound as fast as his old legs would carry him. As he turned the corner of the house he was welcomed by a most jubilant neigh, and the next second had reached the steaming Apache, and exclaiming:

“Ma Lawd-Gawd-A’mighty, what done happen! Is dat yo’, Miss Bev’ly? Baby! Honey! Is yo’ daid?” for a rigid, unconscious little figure was leaning forward with her arms clasped tightly around the panting horse’s neck.

Quicker than it takes to tell it Abel had unclasped the clinging arms and was tenderly lifting her from the horse’s back. At that moment the Admiral burst through the big front door and came striding across the lawn, storming at each step:

“You Abel! You old fool! How did that horse break loose? How——My God! Who is that?” for he was now near enough to see the three figures and to hear Abel’s sobs which punctuated his words as he held the helpless little figure in his arms.

“What is it? What has happened?”

“Gawd only knows, Mars Athol. But he’p me wid dis chile quick please sur. She lak ter die ef we don’ do some’n.”

No need of that request. Relieved of his precious burden, Apache sped away for the stable, his duty faithfully performed. There many willing hands cared for him while his little mistress, the excitement, fatigue and cold having completed Miss Woodhull’s cruel work, was tenderly carried into the house by old Abel and her uncle, the latter muttering:

“It’s some of that damned woman’s work! I know it is, and I’ll bring the whole school down about her ears unless I find out the truth of it all. My little girl! My little girl! Over thirty-five miles in the dead of night, alone and nearly frozen. Mary! Mary! Mammy! Everybody come quick and phone for Doctor Marshall!”

But Beverly was not dying, and within an hour, under her mother’s and good old Mammy Riah’s ministrations, was warm and snug in her bed, though weak and exhausted. When the doctor came he ordered absolute quiet and undisturbed rest. “She will soon drop off to sleep, and let her sleep for hours if she can. She is utterly worn out and as much from nerve strain as physical fatigue if I know anything of symptoms. What happened, Seldon?”

“The good Lord who brought her through it only knows, for I don’t, though I mean to learn as soon as that child is in a condition to tell me. And then by the great guns something’s going to let loose. I’ve talked with that stone image of a woman at Leslie Manor and I know what it can say. It isn’t a woman; It’s a blight upon the sex: A freak: It’s stone, and when lightning strikes stone something bursts to smithereens. And by all that’s powerful the lightning’s going to strike this time. Thirty-five miles all alone in the dead of the night. Marshall I’m all bowled over. Good Lord! Good Lord!” The Admiral paced the library like a caged lion.

“A woman without children is only half a woman,” sputtered fat little Doctor Marshall. “I’ll be in again toward evening. Don’t worry about her, for she’ll come out all right. She has a constitution like India rubber.”

“Well may the Lord help that old maid if she doesn’t!” was the Admiral’s significant answer.