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"Richard Thorndyke Smith! My dear boy," she cried, while the nieces gasped at each other with gestures and looks all the way between Terpsichore and Melpomene, and then the four cried in chorus, "We know your mother!"

when, just as our last note died among the trees one of us cried, "Listen!" and through the stillness there came from far away on our right the last three measures of a bugle sounding The March.

"That will do. Now, beyond Fayette, about seven miles north, there's a place--"

The trio laughed, the young woman most musically.

"I don't believe you! I don't believe you ever had cause for one!" She laid a hand again upon mine.

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