r married, an
early romance having come to a tragic end in the death of his fiancee
soon after the outbreak of the war. Consequently, beautiful Woodbine
lacked a mistress, to the great distress of the old family servants.

To remedy this he sent for his brother's widow and her little
two-year-old daughter, Mary. Beverly Seldon, two years his brother's
junior, had been killed at the battle of Winchester in 1864, and the
little Mary had entered this world exactly five months after her father's
death. Her mother came very near following her father into the great
beyond, but survived the shock to live beneath Athol Seldon's hospitable
roof until Mary was eleven years of age, then quietly went to sleep,
leaving Mary to her uncle's care. The child then and there became
mistress not only of Woodbine, but of every living thing upon the place,
her uncle included, and no only daughter could have been cared for,
petted, spoiled or spanked more systematically than the Madcap Mary
Seldon.

At twenty-six she married Turner Ashby, the grandson of one of the
Admiral's oldest friends. Two years later a little daughter was born, but
died before she was a year old. Then, just when the old Admiral was
beginning to grumble because there seemed to be no prospect of a
grand-nephew to inherit Woodbine, Mary Ashby presented him with not only
an heir but an heiress as well, and the old gentleman came very near a
balloon ascension.

The twins were christened Athol Seldon Ashby and Beverly Turner Ashby
before they had fully decided that they were really American citizens,
and for seven years no happier household could have been found in the
state. Then another calamity visited it. Turner Ashby was killed in a
railway accident while north on a business trip. It was a frightful blow
to the home in which he was adored by every member, from the Admiral
straight down to the blackest little piccaninny upon the estate, and to
make it, if possible, more tragic, all that ever came back to Woodbine
was the seal ring he had worn, picked up in the charred ruins of the
parlor coach. More than eight years had passed since that tragedy, and
those years had changed Mary Ashby from a light-hearted, happy young wife
and joyous mother to a quiet, dignified woman. Never again did her
children find in her the care-free, romping play-fellow they had always
known, though she never ceased to be the gentle, tender mother.

And how they missed it. They were too young t