.

"Where is Miss Tish?" she asked.

"Reading her Bible," I said tartly. "When Tish is up to some mischief,
she generally reads an extra chapter or two as atonement."

"Is she--is she always like this?"

"The trouble is," explained Aggie gently, "Miss Letitia is an
enthusiast. Whatever she does, she does with all her heart."

"I feel so responsible," said Bettina. "I try to look after her, but
what can I do?"

"There is only one thing to do," I assured her--"let her alone. If she
wants to fly, let her fly; if she wants to race, let her race--and trust
in Providence."

"I'm afraid Providence has its hands full!" said Bettina, and went to
bed.

For the remainder of that week nothing was talked of in Morris Valley
but the approaching race. Some of Eliza Bailey's friends gave fancy-work
parties for us, which Aggie and I attended. Tish refused, being now
openly at the race-track most of the day. Morris Valley was much
excited. Should it wear motor clothes, or should it follow the example
of the English Derby and the French races and wear its afternoon
reception dress with white kid gloves? Or--it being warm--wouldn't
lingerie clothes and sunshades be most suitable?

Some of the gossip I retailed to Jasper, oil-streaked and greasy, in the
Baileys' garage where he was working over his car.

"Tell 'em to wear mourning," he said pessimistically. "There's always a
fatality or two. If there wasn't a fair chance of it nothing would make
'em sit for hours watching dusty streaks going by."

The race was scheduled for Wednesday. On Sunday night the cars began to
come in. On Monday Tish took us all, including Bettina, to the track.
There were half a dozen tents in the oval, one of them marked with a
huge red cross.

"Hospital tent," said Tish calmly. We even, on permission from Mr.
Ellis, went round the track. At one spot Tish stopped the car and got
out.

"Nail," she said briefly. "It's been a horse-racing track for years, and
we've gathered a bushel of horse-shoe nails."

Aggie and I said nothing, but we looked at each other. Tish had said
"we." Evidently Cousin Angeline's legacy was not going into a mortgage.

The fair-grounds were almost ready. Peanut and lunch stands had sprung
up everywhere. The oval, save by the tents and the repair pits, was
marked off into parking-spaces numbered on tall banners. Groups of dirty
men in overalls, carrying machine wrenches, small boys with buckets of
water, onlookers round th