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