"Shut up, Bev," added the taller of the two boys, a fair haired lad of sixteen or seventeen. He was a handsome boy, with eyes of such a deep blue that they seemed violet, wavy golden hair and a fine, clear skin, though it was tanned many shades darker than nature intended it to be. The nose was clean cut, and the mouth and chin indicated considerable strength of character. He carried himself as though very sure of his place in the world, and his intention to hold it. Nevertheless, the face was a cheery, happy one. The other boy was so like the girl that it was laughable. Exchange their garments and it would have puzzled the cleverest person to tell "t'other-from-which." To label them twins would have been superfluous. Nature had attended to that little matter fifteen years earlier in their lives, and even their old mammy used to say: "Now don' none of yo' other chillern go ter projectin' wid dem babies whilst I's got my haid turn'd 'way, cause if yo' does dey's gwine fer to get mixed pintedly, an' den I's gwine ter have ter spend a hull hour mebbe a-gettin' my mind settled pon which is which again." Moreover, the fifteen years of daily association had only served to consummate what Dame Nature had so ably begun, for the girl and the boy almost thought and felt in unison. In all those years they had hardly been separated for a day. That is no further than a strict quarantine beneath the same roof had separated them, and that had been entirely Beverly's doings. At five she began the performance by contracting whooping-cough; at seven she tried mumps; at nine turned a beautiful lobster hue from measles, and at eleven capped the climax by scaring the family nearly to death with scarlet fever, and thereby causing her grandfather, Admiral Ashby, to exclaim: "Lord bless my soul, Beverly, you are worse than the potato bugs; they _do_ skip the fatal second year now and again, but you never let up." Perhaps this criticism had called a halt in her performances in the line of contagious diseases, for since the scarlet fever scare she had quit frightening the family into spasms, and at fifteen was as charming, healthy, and tantalizing a bit of girlhood as one could wish to see, though about as much of a tomboy as one could find. CHAPTER II WOODBINE While Beverly Ashby is squabbling good-naturedly with her brother and chum, suppose we take this opportune moment in which to learn something about the trio?