Andrée’s the one girl cousin I possess, but there’s still another boy besides Dan and Sydney--the baby of the family, named Joe for a sea-captain uncle of ours, but because of the color of his hair, never called anything except Reddy. Reddy’s a darling, and just ten; not a bit spoiled, either, in spite of being the youngest. I wish I could say the same thing for my cousin Andrée, but I can’t. You’d think, wouldn’t you, that she and I, being the only girls, would be chums and like the same things, and the same people. Well, we’re not, and we don’t. Andrée liked dolls, and silly, girly sort of books, and tea parties--that kind of thing, and I loathed them. I always wanted to play ball with Dan and Sydney, when they’d let me tag round after them, and climb trees, and swim in the lake, and go on cross-country hikes. When I was ten I could beat both the boys at sprinting, though they could tire me on long distance runs. I still like tramping better than parties and dancing, which Andrée is crazy over. But then Andrée’s pretty, in a really lovely pink and cream and golden fashion, and sure to be popular wherever she goes, and I’m not. I’m little and skinny, and have half a million freckles, and a turn-up nose, though I have nice eyes--hazel, with long lashes. I can say that without being vain, because Aunt Mollie says I’ve got my mother’s eyes, and everyone admits _she_ was a beauty. I’m like my daddy, and what can be all right in a man, you know, can be quite plain in a little girl. However, I’ve never cared much about it one way or the other. I’ve been too busy, I guess. And I remember my father a little--he died when I was six--but I know how wonderful he was, and I’d rather look like him than be pretty like Andrée. Honestly I would. Because Daddy was the bravest and finest man I’ve ever heard of, even counting in the famous heroes in books and histories. He was a sea captain, just as Uncle Joe is, and lost his life in a dreadful storm at sea, saving one of his sailors who had been washed overboard. Daddy dove right into that raging sea, Uncle Joe wrote Aunt Mollie--Uncle Joe was his first mate at the time--and reached the man, and held him up safely till a boat could be lowered away. But a heavy crate that had been washed overboard, too, struck Daddy’s head just as he was being lifted into the lifeboat. He never recovered consciousness again, and died the next morning, and they had to bury him at sea. So maybe you can understand why I’m proud of looking like him, and always will be. A girl with a father like that has got something big to live up to all the rest of her life. And I’m certainly going to do it if I can.