consulted preparatory to a correct readiness for the fifth offering.
The programmes confided that "The Death of Crusader," by Miss Allis
Porter, was the next item,

In the front row of seats a prim little body, full of a severe
quaintness in every quirk of dress, tilted her head toward a neighbor,
and whispered, "It's that racin' gal of John Porter's."

The neighbor answered in a creak meant for a whisper: "I'm right glad
she's took to religion for onct, an' is givin' us somethin' about them
Crusaders. They was in Palestine, you know. She's been away to
boardin' school all winter, an' I guess it'll be a high-falutin' account
of the war."

The quaint little old lady jerked her head up and down with decisive
bobbiness. On the third upward bob her eyes opened wide in
astonishment--a small, slim figure in a glaring red coat stood in the
center of the improvised platform.

From beneath the coat fell away in long graceful lines a black riding
skirt; a dark oval face, set with large wondrous gray eyes--the Porter
eyes--confronted the quaint little old lady.

"That's the Porter gal," her neighbor squeaked; "I've seen her a-top
them race horses more'n a hundred times. My! you'd think butter
wouldn't melt in her mouth, she's that prim now."

"The coat would melt it," commented the quaint one.

Then a clear, soft girlish voice, with just a tremble of apprehensive