"It's the most beautiful place I've ever even imagined!" Marjorie spoke with conviction, and drew in a long, deep breath of the fresh morning air.

She and Beverly were standing on the wide veranda at Randolph Place gazing off over the wide landscape, of low Virginia hills, with the wide river less than half a mile away. It was a glorious morning, and the peace and quiet seemed indescribably delightful after the noisy, stuffy night on the train. Beverly was very proud of his Southern home, but boy like, he tried not to show it.

"It's pretty enough," he admitted, "but this isn't the season to see it at its best; you ought to come here in the spring."

"It's perfect just as it is," declared Marjorie. "I've read about such places, but never expected to see one myself. Is that river really the James, and did your great-grandfather truly live in this very house?"

"He most certainly did," said Beverly, laughing; "my people have lived here for over a hundred years. You should have heard some of my father's war stories. He was only a boy at the time of the war, but he had some exciting experiences. When I was a little chap I used to wish I had been alive then, too."

"Oh, I love war stories!" cried Marjorie, rapturously; "are there any people here now who can tell them?"

"Yes, indeed, plenty. I'll introduce you to old Uncle Josh. He was my grandfather's body servant, and went all through the war with him. He's over seventy now, and doesn't work any more, but he and his wife live in a cabin down at the quarters."

"It all sounds just like a story-book," said Marjorie, with a little sigh of utter content. "I should think you would be tremendously proud of your home."

"I like it all right," said Beverly, "but now hadn't you better come in and have some breakfast? I hear Mother and Uncle George in the dining-room, and I should think you'd be hungry, for it's after nine, and you were up before six."

"Of course I was," laughed Marjorie; "I was much too excited to sleep. I wasn't going to miss the first sight of Virginia."

The dining-room at Randolph Place was very large, and the walls were lined with portraits. Marjorie was so much interested in the portraits of great-grandfather and great-grandmother Randolph, that she came near forgetting to eat her breakfast, although the fried eggs and bacon, and waffles with maple syrup, were certainly the most delicious she had ever tasted. Mrs. Randolph and the doctor watched her with kindly amusement. Her eyes were sparkling with excitement, and there was a bright color in her cheeks; she seemed quite a different creature from the pale, subdued girl of a week before.

"I declare, Barbara, I had no idea that little girl was so pretty," Dr. Randolph remarked in a low tone to his sister-in-law, when Marjorie and Beverly were in the midst of an animated discussion about Captain John Smith and Pocahontas.

"She is charming," Mrs. Randolph answered, smiling. "It is strange how much environment has to do with appearance."

"And now I am going to take you to your room, Marjorie," said Mrs. Randolph as they rose from the breakfast table. "You will want to unpack and wash up a little after that dusty journey. I have asked some cousins of ours, the Pattersons, to luncheon, and perhaps this afternoon you and Beverly will like to go for a ride. I needn't ask if you are accustomed to riding; every girl brought up on a ranch must be."

"I have ridden ever since I can remember," said Marjorie, her eyes sparkling at the prospect of the coming pleasure. "I would rather ride a horse than do anything else in the world."

Mrs. Randolph laughed, and led the way up a broad oak staircase, and along a wide hall, to the prettiest little room imaginable, all furnished in pink and white; a typical girl's room, as Marjorie saw at the first glance.

"I have put you here because this room is next to mine," Mrs. Randolph explained. "I thought you would like it better than being away down at the other end of the hall. This was my little Barbara's room," she added softly; "no one has slept here since she left it, and nothing has been changed."

"Oh, Mrs. Randolph," cried Marjorie, gratefully, "how very good you are to me, but are you sure you really want me to have this room?"

"Yes, dear, I am quite sure I do. If my Barbara were alive I know she would love you, and I like to think I shall have a little girl next to me again to-night."

With a sudden impulse, Marjorie flung her arms round Mrs. Randolph's neck and hugged her. She did not speak—words did not come easily just then—but Barbara's mother understood, and the kiss she gave in return was a very tender one.

When Marjorie was left alone, her first occupation was to look about the room, and examine all its details. It was very simple, but everything was in perfect taste, and the girl admired it all, from the pretty china ornaments on the bureau, to the row of books on a shelf over the writing-desk. She took down one of the books reverently; it seemed almost like sacrilege to touch these things that had belonged to another girl, whose death had been so very sad. It was "Lorna Doone," and on the fly-leaf Marjorie read, "To Barbara Randolph, from her affectionate cousin, Grace Patterson." Then she examined the framed photographs on the mantelpiece; Mrs. Randolph and Beverly, and a gentleman whom she supposed must have been Barbara's father. There were other photographs as well, one in particular of a girl with curly hair, and a very friendly expression, and Marjorie wondered if she could be the cousin, who had given Barbara "Lorna Doone." It was strange how intimate she was beginning to feel with this Barbara, who had died nearly three years ago.

Marjorie had just finished her unpacking when there was a tap at her door, and in answer to her "Come in," a girl of about her own age presented herself. One glance was sufficient to assure Marjorie that she was the same curly-haired, friendly-faced girl, whose photograph, in a silver frame, stood in a prominent place on the writing-desk.

"I'm Grace Patterson," announced the visitor, in a voice as friendly as her face. "Cousin Barbara told me to come right up; my brother and I have come over especially to see you."

"I'm very glad to meet you," said Marjorie, shaking hands, and drawing forward a chair for her guest. "I've just been looking at your picture," she added, smiling.

Grace Patterson glanced about the room, and a shade of sadness crossed her bright face.

"It seems so strange to be in this room again," she said; "I haven't been here since poor Babs—you've heard about Babs, of course?"

Marjorie nodded.

"She was my chum," said Grace, with a little catch in her voice, "and one of the dearest girls that ever lived. We were almost the same age, and as neither of us had any sisters, we were together a great deal. Babs had a governess, and my younger brother and I used to come over here every day for lessons. Our place is only two miles away, and my mother and Cousin Barbara are great friends. It nearly killed poor Cousin Barbara."

"I know," said Marjorie. "It was lovely of Mrs. Randolph to let me have this room. I have been so interested in Barbara ever since I first heard about her, but I don't like to talk to her mother or brother about her."

"You know how it happened, I suppose?"

"Oh, yes; Beverly told me that. It must have been a frightful shock to you all."

"Frightful! I should say it was. Even Beverly has never been quite the same since. He was devoted to Babs, and they were such chums. I don't think it would have been quite so terrible if they could have recognized her afterward, but she was so frightfully injured—oh, I can't bear to talk about it! They recognized Miss Randolph, Bab's aunt, but poor Babs was completely crushed, and—oh, let's come downstairs. I can't stand it up here; it gives me the horrors."

There were more questions Marjorie would have liked to ask, but the subject was evidently a very painful one to her new acquaintance, for Grace had grown rather pale, and there was a look of horror in her eyes. So she said no more, and the two girls went downstairs, where they found the family assembled, and where Marjorie was introduced to Harry Patterson—Grace's brother—a pleasant-faced boy of seventeen.

The Pattersons stayed to luncheon, and Marjorie liked them immensely. Grace soon recovered from the momentary depression, caused by recalling painful memories, and Marjorie was quite ready to endorse Beverly's opinion that "she was one of the jolliest girls going." They had a very merry morning, and after luncheon it was proposed that Marjorie and Beverly should ride home with the Pattersons, who had come over on their ponies.

"Marjorie is pining for a gallop, I know," said Beverly, laughing; "she is as wild about horses as you are, Grace, and trained a colt when she was nine."

"How jolly!" cried Grace; "you and I can have some fine rides together, Marjorie. I haven't had a girl to ride with since—" Grace did not finish her sentence, but Marjorie knew by her suddenly heightened color, and the glance she gave Beverly, that she was thinking of her cousin Barbara.

"I declare they've brought Nelly Gray for you to ride!" whispered Grace to Marjorie, as the two girls stood on the veranda, waiting to mount. "I didn't know any one rode her now."

"She's a beauty," said Marjorie, with an admiring glance at the handsome little chestnut mare, which was being led up to the door by a groom.

"Oh, she's a love! She was Babs's pony, and Babs loved her dearly. I remember she taught her to take sugar out of her pocket."

Nelly Gray certainly was "a love" and Marjorie enjoyed that ride as she had enjoyed few things since leaving her Western home. It was a beautiful afternoon, and Nelly herself appeared to enjoy it almost as much as her rider. They took the longest way round to the Patterson home, and when they had left their friends, Beverly proposed that they should ride a few miles farther, and come home by a different road.

"I think I could ride all night without getting tired," laughed Marjorie. "This is an adorable pony."

"She was my sister's pony," said Beverly.

"Yes, I know, your cousin told me. It was awfully good of you and your mother to let me ride her."

Beverly said nothing, and they rode on for a few moments in silence, both young faces unusually grave. Marjorie was the first to speak.

"I wish I could make your mother understand how much I appreciate all she has done for me," she said, impulsively. "Do you know she has given me your sister's room?"

"Yes, she told me she was going to. Mother is very fond of you, and she says she thinks Babs would have loved you, too."

"I know I should have loved her," said Marjorie, earnestly. "Grace has been telling me about her, and I have been looking at all her things."

"She was almost as fond of riding as you are," said Beverly. "She was such a plucky little girl; never afraid of anything. She rode better than any girl in the neighborhood."

Beverly's voice sounded a little husky, and Marjorie thought it might be best to change the subject, so she launched into an account of a "round up" she had once seen, and the rest of the ride was a very merry one.

"Will you mind if I stop for a moment to speak to my old mammy?" Beverly asked, as they were on their way home. "She lives in one of these cabins, and I know she'll be on the lookout for me."

"Of course I won't mind," said Marjorie, promptly; "I shall love it. I've never seen a real colored mammy, but I've often read about them in stories."

"Well, you shall see one now. Ours was the genuine article, though people pretend to say the old-fashioned darky is a thing of the past. She was devoted to Babs and me, although she was a firm believer in the efficacy of the rod. We loved her dearly, and minded her better than we minded Mother. She was put on the pension list several years ago, and now has a cabin to herself. Here it is, and there's Mammy on the watch for us, as I was sure she would be. Hello, Mammy, here's your bad boy back again!"

Beverly sprang to the ground, and the next moment was being rapturously hugged by a very stout old negress, with a turban on her head. She was so exactly Marjorie's idea of what a mammy ought to be, that the girl was delighted, and sat looking on with deep interest, while Beverly and his old nurse exchanged greetings. Then Marjorie herself was introduced, and Mammy begged them both to tie their horses, and come in for a cup of tea. But Beverly declared it was too late, and they finally made their escape, having promised to come another day, for a feast of the waffles, for which it appeared Mammy was famous.

"It has been one of the loveliest days I've ever had," Marjorie declared, as they rode up the avenue at Randolph Place, in the light of the setting sun. "I shall never forget it as long as I live, and I shall have so much to write home in my next letter, that I believe it will fill a volume."