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“His dear old straight shoulders!” she said, for there was only the squirrel to hear; and in spite of her determination the tears would come. With a sob she collapsed into the rustic seat and was ready for a good cry. But suddenly she gathered herself together, mopped away the tears and stood up, as straight as her father. “No, I will not! It always makes me sick to cry! I’ll see if I can not show a little nerve for once. That is what Father’s military salute meant. He was saying to me, ‘Remember Martin Van Buskirk and the rest of your Revolutionary ancestors, little daughter of the Revolution!’ I’m a goose! I’m past fourteen years old and I’ve been away from home before, and I guess if I wanted to go home awfully I could—but I’m going to stay!”

So the descendant of Martin Van Buskirk and Captain Hart walked as firmly and briskly as her father, up the walk, the front steps and the stairs to her own rooms, where she looked around to see what was to be done. “As Phil says, ‘Here goes!’” she remarked to herself, throwing back the top of a trunk; for before her father left, Cathalina’s trunks had been sent up and stood unlocked and unstrapped in the hall by the door.