The Turner Twins. Barbour Ralph Henry

creases appeared above her nose, a small, straight nose that was bridged by a sprinkling of freckles. Then the smile came again. “Maybe it did seem longer, though,” she acknowledged, “for it’s uphill all the way; and then, you had your bags. You’re new boys, aren’t you?”

      Ned acknowledged it, adding, “Think we’ll like it?”

      The girl seemed genuinely surprised. “Why, of course! Every one likes it. What a perfectly funny idea!”

      “Well,” said Laurie, defensively, “we’ve never tried boarding-school before, you see. Dad didn’t know anything about Hillman’s, either. He chose it on account of the way the advertisement read in a magazine. Something about ‘a moderate discipline rigidly enforced.’”

      The girl laughed again. (She had a jolly sort of laugh, they decided.) “You’re – you’re twins, aren’t you?” she asked.

      “He is,” replied Ned, gravely.

      “Why – why, aren’t you both?” Her brown eyes grew very round and the little lines creased her nose again.

      “It’s this way,” explained Laurie. “Ned was born first, and so, as there was only one of him, he wasn’t a twin. Then I came, and that made two of us, and I was a twin. You see, don’t you? It’s really quite plain.”

      The girl shook her head slowly in puzzlement. “I – I’m afraid I don’t,” she answered apologetically. “You must be twins – both of you, I mean – because you both look just like both – I mean, each other!” Then she caught the sparkle of mischief in Ned’s blue eyes and laughed. Then they all laughed. After which they seemed suddenly to be very good friends, such good friends that Laurie abandoned custom and spoke out of turn.

      “I suppose you know a lot of the fellows,” he said.

      The girl shook her head. “N – no, not any, really. Of course, I see most of them when they come to Mother’s, but she doesn’t like me to – to know them.”

      “Of course not,” approved Ned. “She’s dead right, too. They’re a pretty poor lot, I guess.”

      “Oh, no, they’re not, really! Only, you see – ” She stopped, and then went on a trifle breathlessly: “I guess she wouldn’t be awfully pleased if she saw me now! I – I hope you’ll like the school.”

      She nodded and went on.

      “Thanks,” called Laurie. “If we don’t like it, we’ll change it. Good-by.”

      “Nice kid,” observed Ned, tolerantly, as they turned the corner of the hedge. “Wonder who she is. She said most of the fellows went to her mother’s. Maybe her mother gives dancing lessons or something, eh?”

      “If she does, she won’t see me,” responded his brother, firmly. “No dancing for mine.”

      “Maybe it’s compulsory.”

      “Maybe it’s esthetic,” retorted Laurie, derisively. “It makes no never mind. I’m agin it. This must be the place. Yes, there’s a sign.”

      It was a very modest sign a-swing from a rustic post beside a broad entrance giving on to a well-kept drive. “Hillman’s School – Entrance Only,” it read. Laurie stopped in pretended alarm and laid a detaining clutch on Ned’s shoulder.

      “‘Entrance Only’! Sounds as if we couldn’t ever get out again, Ned! Do you dare?”

      Ned looked doubtfully through at the curving drive and the red-brick building that showed beyond the border of trees and shrubbery. Then he threw back his shoulders and set foot bravely within.

      “Come, comrade, let us know the worst!”

      Laurie, with a gesture of resignation, followed.

      “What you durst I will likewise durst!”

      CHAPTER II – THE GIRL IN THE WHITE MIDDY

      When Doctor John Hyde Hillman started a modest school for boys, on the bank of the Hudson River, at Orstead, the town barely crept to the one brick building that contained dormitory and recitation-rooms. But that was nearly twenty years ago, and to-day the place is no longer isolated, but stands well inside the residence section of the village. There are four buildings, occupying most of an unusually large block. School Hall, four stories in height, is a red-brick, slate-roofed edifice, whose unloveliness has been mercifully hidden by ivy. It faces Summit Street and contains the class-rooms, the offices, and, at one end, the principal’s quarters. Flanking it are the two dormitories, East Hall and West Hall. These, while of brick too, are modern and far more attractive. Each contains sleeping-rooms to accommodate forty students, two masters’ studies, a recreation-hall, dining-room, kitchen, and service-rooms. Behind East Hall is the gymnasium, a picturesque structure of random-set stone, gray stucco, and much glass. Here, besides the gymnasium proper, is an auditorium of good size, a modest swimming-tank, locker-room and baths, and a commodious office presided over by Mr. Wells, the physical director. From the gymnasium steps one looks across an attractive, well-kept quadrangle of shaded turf, vegetable and flower gardens, and tennis-courts.

      Doctor Hillman occupies an apartment at the west end of the School Hall, gained from the building by way of the school offices, and from without by way of a wide porch, vine screened in summer and glassed in winter, an outdoor living-room where, on seasonable Friday afternoons, the doctor’s maiden sister, Miss Tabitha, who keeps house for him, serves weak tea and layer-cake to all comers. Miss Tabitha, I regret to say, is known among the boys as “Tabby,” with, however, no more intention of disrespect than in alluding to the doctor as “Johnny.” Miss Tabitha’s thin body holds a warm heart, and her somewhat stern countenance belies her kindly ways.

      On this fifteenth day of September, shortly after twelve o’clock, Miss Tabitha was seated on the vine-shaded porch in an erect and uncompromising attitude, her knitting-needles clicking busily. Near by, but a few moments before released from the office, the doctor was stretched in a long wicker chair, a morning paper before him. At the other end of the porch, a gate-legged table was spread for the mid-day meal, and a middle-aged colored woman – who, when it pleased her, answered to the name of Aunt Persis – shuffled in and out of sight at intervals. It was Miss Tabitha who, hearing the sound of steps on the walk, peered over her glasses and broke the silence.

      “Two more of the boys are coming, John,” she announced.

      The doctor grunted.

      “I think they are new boys. Yes, I am sure they are. And bless my soul, John, they’re alike as two peas!”

      “Alike?” The doctor rustled the paper to indicate interest. “Well, why shouldn’t they be? Probably they’re brothers. Let me see, weren’t those two boys from California brothers? Of course. Turner’s the name.”

      “Well, I never saw two boys so much alike in all my born days,” Miss Tabitha marveled. “Do you suppose they can be twins, John?”

      “It’s quite within the realm of probability,” was the reply. “I believe that twins do occur occasionally, even in the – er – best-regulated families.”

      “Well, they certainly are twins!” Miss Tabitha laid down her work, brushed the front of her immaculate dress, and prepared to rise. “I suppose I had better go and meet them,” she added.

      “I don’t see the necessity for it, my dear,” the doctor protested. “Cummins may, I think, be relied on to deal even with – er – twins.”

      “Of course; but – still – California’s such a long way – and they may feel strange – or lonesome – ”

      The doctor laughed gently. “Then by all means go, my dear. If you like, have them out here for a few minutes. If the resemblance between them is as striking as you seem to think, they must be worth seeing.”

      When Miss Tabitha had tripped into the house, the doctor dropped his paper, stretched luxuriously, and, with a sigh of protest, sat up. He was several years younger than his sister – which is to say, in the neighborhood of forty-seven. He was a smallish man,