d it toward the distant view of the Palisades.

The girls were often to be found here under the big elm tree. It was
their favorite spot in all that wide expanse of lawn and woodland that
made up the Merriweather Estate, the home of Colonel Baxter. And here
it was that they always brought their picnic feast, and today the
basket reposed near by filled with surprises that Auntie Gibbs, the
Baxter housekeeper loved to prepare for Bet and her friends.

These girls had the run of the grounds, for Uncle Nat, the old gardener
was as indulgent with this motherless girl as her easy-going father.
What Bet wanted, she usually got, for no one could quite resist the
charm of her smile, least of all her two chums, Shirley Williams and
Joy Evans.

They made a lovely picture as they sat there with the sunlight pouring
down upon them. Bet's golden hair was rumpled by the wind--but then
Bet's hair was mostly rumpled for one reason or another. Her face was
flushed, her eyes bright--just because she was happy and enjoyed life.

Shirley's head was bent over her camera. She was the serious one of
the group. Shirley could enter into the good times as well as the
others, but her smile came less quickly. And there were days, like the
present, when her face would wrinkle with a frown as she tried to work
out some problem in photography. Picture-taking was her hobby, and
when the other girls skipped and danced about, Shirley would often
trudge along burdened with a camera and tripod.

Joy was all sunshine. It was just as impossible for her to keep still
as it would be for a dancing sunbeam to become motionless. Now, as she
watched the gull, she suddenly jumped to her feet, and poising on
tiptoe, swayed her slender body in rhythm with the flight of the gull.

Abruptly, a rustling sound, the breaking of a twig, disturbed the quiet
and Bet sat erect with a gasp of surprise. She caught Joy by the arm.
"S-sh! Keep quiet!"

For a tall girl, slightly older than the three, had appeared on top of
the stone wall that enclosed the estate and with a quick jump had
straddled it. Whipping off her cap she twirled it around her head.
"Whoopee!" she shouted, and her curly black locks bobbed in the breeze.
Then beating her cap against the wall at her side she cried: "Go it
Powder! Let's race! Faster! Faster! Good old pony!"

Bet and her friends might have laughed at this strange sight if the
play had continued a moment longer, but in the