blossoms. The oleanders,
too, were coming into bloom.

Beth stopped for a moment to draw in some of the wonderful fragrance
that filled the air. No perfume is more delightful than that of orange
blossoms in their native grove. The fruit, too, looks more tempting on
the trees. The glistening green leaves are just the right setting for
the golden yellow balls. Beth wished to stop and eat some of the
fruit, but again she proved firm. She ran on and on under the shade of
the archway that extended a quarter of a mile at the very least. She
ran so fast that her breath shortened and her cheeks flamed.

At the end of the avenue was an arch of stone covered with climbing
Cherokees spread in wild confusion. Beth did not stop to gather any of
the pure, fragrant blossoms, for right in front of the arch was a wharf
leading out on the beautiful St. Johns. The river was from one to two
miles wide at this point. It glistened and rippled under the brilliant
sunshine. As Beth ran out on the wharf, she thought she had never seen
a sight more charming.

The wharf extended far out into the river, and near the end of it, Beth
came suddenly upon a boy with a loaf of bread in his hand. She stopped
undecided, and looked at the boy. He was, perhaps, three or four years
older than Beth. His hair was as light as hers was dark. His eyes
were blue, and his naturally fair skin was tanned. He looked up at
Beth for an instant, and frowned.

"What are you doing here, little un? I don't like girls to bother me.
Go away."

If there was one thing above another that made Beth's temper rise, it
was to be called "little one," and to be twitted upon being a girl.
She felt like making up a face at this boy, but, instead, she assumed
as much dignity as she could command.

"I won't go away. This is my place. What are you doing here?"

The boy laughed incredulously. "Your place, indeed. The Marlowes own
this place, and they are away. Good-bye."

This was too much for her. She stamped her foot in rage. "I won't go.
My papa bought this place to-day."

He looked a little interested. "Indeed? What's your name?"

"Elizabeth Davenport;" she said 'Elizabeth' to be dignified, "and
really my father owns the place."

"If what you say is so, I'd better go," he said somewhat sheepishly.

She relented. "Oh, I'll let you stay."

"I'm not sure I want to. I don't like girls. They're 'fraid-cats."

"I'm no 'fraid-cat," and her eyes sn