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 snapped.

“How can you prove it, Elizabeth?”

“Don’t call me that.  I hate to be called Elizabeth.”

“But you told me that was your name.”

“Everybody calls me Beth.  If you’re nice, you may call me Beth.”

“All right.  How are you going to prove you’re no ’fraid-cat, Eli—­Beth?”

She pondered a moment. “’Fraid-cats cry when they’re hurt, don’t they?”

“Of course.  So do girls.”

“I don’t cry when I’m hurt,” and she looked triumphant as if that settled the matter.  “Once when I was a little bit of a girl——­”

“You’re pretty small now.”

“I’m a big girl, and you shouldn’t interrupt.  Well, once Marian——­”

“Who’s she?”

“She’s my sister.  Well, I wanted to light the gas, but Marian said I was too small, but I’d not listen.  I jumped up on a rocker to light the gas.  The chair rocked and, I fell against the windowsill.  Marian screamed, ‘Beth’s killed.  She’s covered with blood!’”