Then for a time all moved serenely at Leslie Manor. Thanksgiving recess was drawing nigh and the girls were planning for their holiday, which would begin on the afternoon of the day before and last until the following Monday morning. Beverly was, of course, going to Woodbine, the boys to be her escort from Front Royal, to which junction she would be duly escorted by Miss Stetson, in company with Sally and Aileen, who were also going home. Petty Gaylord was to join her doting mamma in Washington and proceed from that city to Annapolis to attend the Thanksgiving hop at the Naval Academy with the idol of her affections and also go up to the Army-Navy game in Philadelphia upon the Saturday following, and Petty was a very geyser of gurgling giggles at the prospect. Beverly's five days at home with the boys seemed only to emphasize the separation of the past two months and make the ensuing ones harder to contemplate. The Sunday evening before she must go back to school she was nestling upon the arm of the Admiral's big chair, her arm about his neck, her dark head resting lovingly against his white one as she "confessed her sins." From baby days this had been a Sunday night custom, and more passed between these two in those twilight hours than anyone else ever kenned. The Admiral's study was one of those rooms which seem full to the very ceiling of wonderful memories, and was also one of the homiest rooms at Woodbine. It was the hour before tea time. Across the big hall could be heard Earl Queen's mellow tenor as he softly intoned: "Swing low, sweet chariot," while laying the table for the evening meal, the little clink of silver and glass betraying his occupation. Mrs. Ashby had gone upstairs with Athol to unearth some treasures he wished to take back to school with him. The big house was very silent, a peaceful, restful spirit pervading it. Upon the hearth in the study the logs blazed brightly, filling the big room with a rich, red glow and the sweet odor of burning spruce. For some time neither Beverly nor her uncle had spoken. He was thinking intently of the confessions just made as he gazed at the darting flames and absently stroked the hand she had slipped into his, her other one gently patting his shoulder. Now and again she kissed the thick, silvery curls which crowned the dear old head. Presently he said abruptly: "And now that you've gotten your load of sins off your shoulders and bundled onto mine do you feel better?" "No, I can't say that I do, but I had to unload all the same. There is no one at the school to unload upon, you see. Besides, it could never be like you, any way. You always let things sort of percolate, before you let off steam, but it's mostly all steam, or _hot air_, at Leslie Manor." "Reckon you can supply your share of the latter, can't you?" was the half serious, half-bantering retort.