arition it is utterly impossible to convey any idea of its
weirdness.

Wesley tried to reach the door. So did the tall spook. The result was a
collision which sent Wesley heels over head, and before he could scramble
to his feet again two spooks instead of one had vanished.

With a second howl the darkie shot across the gym and out of the door
which led into the main building, where his cries speedily brought an
audience to which he protested that:

"De hants done got dis house, suah!" and so successfully drew attention
to the main floor that the three girls had no difficulty in slipping back
to Number 10 and raising a window to listen to the thud of hoofbeats down
the driveway.

So ended All Saint's Eve, though Wesley Watts Mather long retained his
horror of that gymnasium after nightfall.

Then for a time all moved serenely at Leslie Manor. Thanksgiving recess
was drawing nigh and the girls were planning for their holiday, which
would begin on the afternoon of the day before and last until the
following Monday morning.

Beverly was, of course, going to Woodbine, the boys to be her escort from
Front Royal, to which junction she would be duly escorted by Miss
Stetson, in company with Sally and Aileen, who were also going home.

Petty Gaylord was to join her doting mamma in Washington and proceed from
that city to Annapolis to attend the Thanksgiving hop at the Naval
Academy with the idol of her affections and also go up to the Army-Navy
game in Philadelphia upon the Saturday following, and Petty was a very
geyser of gurgling giggles at the prospect.

Beverly's five days at home with the boys seemed only to emphasize the
separation of the past two months and make the ensuing ones harder to
contemplate.

The Sunday evening before she must go back to school she was nestling
upon the arm of the Admiral's big chair, her arm about his neck, her dark
head resting lovingly against his white one as she "confessed her sins."

From baby days this had been a Sunday night custom, and more passed
between these two in those twilight hours than anyone else ever kenned.

The Admiral's study was one of those rooms which seem full to the very
ceiling of wonderful memories, and was also one of the homiest rooms at
Woodbine.

It was the hour before tea time. Across the big hall could be heard Earl
Queen's mellow tenor as he softly intoned: "Swing low, sweet chariot,"
while laying the table for the evening meal, the little clin