It is strange and beautiful,” thought Courage as she moved busily about her room, putting one thing and another into a trunk that stood open before the fireplace; “strange and beautiful how difficulties take to themselves wings, when you once make up your mind what is right to do and then go straight ahead and do it.”

“Miss Courage,” said a young coloured girl, who was leaning over the bed trying to fold a black dress in a fashion that should leave no creases to show for its packing, “I felt all along there was nothing else for you to do.”

“Then, Sylvia, why did you not say so?” Courage asked, a little sharply. “You knew how hard it was for me to come to any decision. It was not because you were afraid to say so, was it?”

“Afraid?” and a merry look shone for a moment in Sylvia’s eyes. “No, I don’t believe I ever could grow afraid of the little curly-headed girl I used to work for when we were both children together. No, indeed; it was only because I thought you ought to see it so yourself. It seemed as though it was just as plain a duty as the hand before your face, and I felt sure you would come to it, as you have, if we only gave you time enough.” It was a comfort to Courage to feel that Sylvia so thoroughly understood her. Indeed, they were far more to each other than mistress and maid; they were true friends these two, whose only home for a while had been Larry Starr’s brave lighter, and for both of whom he had cared in the same kind, fatherly way. Of course you do not understand about Larry or Larry’s lighter, unless you have read “Courage,” but then on the other hand there is no reason why you need to understand. Nor was Sylvia the only one who approved of what Courage had done. The Elversons, Miss Julia’s brother and his wife, and with whom Courage and Miss Julia had lived, were as glad as glad could be to have Courage carry out Miss Julia’s plan; and so in fact was everybody who saw how sad and lonely Courage was, and what a blessing anything that would occupy her thoughts must be to her. And so, in the light of all this, you can see how sad it would have been if Courage had yielded to her fears, and persistently turned away from a duty, in very truth as plain as the hand before your face, as Sylvia had put it. But Courage had not turned away, nor for one instant wavered from the moment her resolve was taken.

And now at last the day for the start had dawned. The little Bennetts had been awake at sunrise. Fancy having three months of Christmas ahead of you—for it seemed just as fine as that to them. It was a wonder they had slept at all. They had read about brooks and hills and valleys, and woods where all manner of beautiful wild things were growing; of herds of cow’s grazing in grassy pastures; of loads of hay with children riding atop of them, and of the untold delights of a hay-loft. And now they were going to know and enjoy every one of these delights for themselves. Why, they could not even feel sad about leaving their mother, and indeed she was as radiant as they at the thought of their going.

“You see,” she explained to them, “I shall have the baby for company, and such a beautiful time to rest; and your father and I will take a sail now and then down the bay, or go to the park for the day in the very warm weather; and then it is going to be such a comfort to have your father home for two whole months, and that couldn’t have happened either, you know, if you had not been going away for the summer.” The children’s father, Captain Bennett, was one of the pilots who earn their living by bringing the great ocean steamers into the harbour, and often he would be aboard the pilot-boat, at sea for weeks at a time, waiting his turn to take the helm of one of the incoming steamers, and then, as like as not, he would have to put straight to sea again, for there were many to keep, and there was need for every hard-earned dollar. But the Captain’s chance for a vacation had come with the children’s. He could afford to take it, since four of his little family were to be provided for, for the entire summer, and so every one was happy and every one believed that somehow Miss Julia must know and be so glad for them all.

But this was the day for the start, as I told you, and the children had started. They were in the waiting-room at the foot of Cortlandt Street, where Courage was to meet them.

“And here she is,” exclaimed Mary, with a great sigh of relief, being the first to espy Courage coming through the gate of the ferry-house, “and doesn’t she look lovely!” Mary was right; Courage did look lovely as, with Sylvia close behind her, she walked the length of the waiting-room to where the little group were standing. Other people thought so too, as she passed, and watched her with keenest interest. Her stylish black dress and black sailor hat were wonderfully becoming, and the face that had been so pale and sad was flushed with pleasure now, and with the rather uncomfortable consciousness that she and her little party could scarcely fail to be the observed of all observers. Mrs. Bennett was there, of course, to see them off, and the baby and the Captain, and it must be confessed that the eyes of both father and mother grew a little misty as they said “Good-bye” to their little flock. The girl contingent was a trifle misty, too, but the baby was the only one who really cried outright. However, I half believe that was because he wanted a banana that hung in a fruit stand near by, and not at all because the children were going to leave him; some babies seem to have so very little feeling. But now it was time to go aboard the boat, and the Captain and Mrs. Bennett saw the last of the little party as they disappeared within the ferry-boat cabin, and then in fifteen minutes more the same little party was ranged along one side of a parlor car on the “Washington Limited”; then the wheels slowly and noiselessly commenced to turn and they were really off; all of the little party’s hearts thrilling with the thought, and all sitting up as prim as you please, in their drawing-room chairs, quite overawed with the magnificence of their surroundings and the unparalleled importance of the occasion.

Courage, very much amused, watched them for a few moments and then suggested that they should settle themselves for the journey. Bags were stowed away in the racks overhead, coats and hats banished to coat hooks, and one thing and another properly adjusted, until at last four little pair of hands having placed four little footstools at exactly the desired angle, four pair of brand-new russet shoes found a resting-place rather conspicuously atop of them, and the four children leaned comfortably back in the large, upholstered chairs as though now at last permanently established for the entire length of the journey. But of course no amount of adjusting and arranging really meant anything of that sort, or that they could be able to sit still for more than five minutes at a time, and Courage and Sylvia soon had to put their wits to work to think up ways of keeping the restless little company in some sort of order. But fortunately none of the fellow-passengers appeared disturbed thereby. On the contrary, they seemed very much interested, and finally a handsome old gentleman came down the aisle, and leaning over the chair in which Courage was sitting, said courteously:

“My dear young lady, if you will pardon an old man’s curiosity, and do not for any reason mind telling me, I should very much like to know what you are doing, and where you are going with this little family?”

“And I am very glad to tell you,” answered Courage cordially, for since that summer spent with Larry there had always been such a very warm corner in her heart for all old people; and Teddy, who was sitting next to Courage, had the grace to offer the old gentleman a chair. Then for some time he listened intently, his kind old face glowing with pleasure as Courage told him all about the children, and finally of the cosy little cottage awaiting their coming down in Virginia.

“But in doing all this,” Courage concluded, “I am simply carrying out the plans of my dearest friend, Miss Julia Everett.”

“Oh, you don’t mean it!” the old gentleman exclaimed, his voice trembling. “I knew Miss Everett well. She always stopped with me when she came to Washington.”

“Can it be that you are old Colonel Anderson?”

“Yes, I am Colonel Anderson, and I suppose I am old,” he added, smiling; “and can it be you are young Miss Courage, of whom I have heard so often?”

“Yes, I am Courage, but you will excuse me, won’t you, for speaking as I did? I only had happened to hear Miss Julia——”

Courage hesitated.

“Oh, yes, dear child, I understand perfectly. You used to hear Miss Julia speak of me as old Colonel Anderson, and so I am, and I am not ashamed of it either, although I could not resist the temptation to tease you a little, which was very rude of me. But now, can it be that it is to Miss Julia’s estate near Arlington that you are going—to the home that her Uncle Everett left her when she was just a little slip of a girl, years before the war?”

“Yes, that is exactly where, but I have never seen it.”

“Well, you will love it when you do. It is the dearest little spot in the world. I will drive out some day and take luncheon with you and the children, if I should happen to have an invitation. I could tell you some interesting things about the old place.”

“Oh, will you come?” exclaimed Mary and Gertrude in one breath, for with a curiosity as pardonable, I think, as that of old Mr. Anderson, all of the children had grouped themselves about Courage, and had listened with keenest interest to every word spoken. And so one more happy anticipation was added to the many with which their happy hearts were overflowing.

At last the train steamed into Washington, although at times it had seemed to the children as though it never would, and then a carriage was soon secured, and, three on a seat, the little party crowded into it, and they were off for their eight mile drive to Arlington.