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Updated: May 8, 2025
As he sprang up, the girth snapped, and the saddle and blanket fell under his feet. "God, they are on us!" gasped Washburn. One of the gang raised a shout, and they came on with increased speed. "Up! Up!" cried Washburn, kicking the saddle out of his way. "Quick! What's the matter?" Westerfelt felt a twinge in his old wound as he tried to mount.
For some time she gazed at it through fast-gathering tears, then happening to note the engraving on the inside of the case, opposite to the picture, she held it closer to the light, to discern the delicate characters of the inscription, and read: "To Marjorie Lyle Washburn, Upon her second birthday." Lyle Maverick no longer, but Marjorie Lyle Washburn!
In a corner overhead he saw a jutting rafter, and behind it a dark niche where the shingles sloped to the wall. It was too high for him to reach from the floor, so he placed the table beneath the spot, and, mounting it, pushed the packet tightly into the corner. Then he stepped down and removed the table, cautiously, that Washburn might not hear him, and sat on the bed again.
When I went in to breakfast, I found that Washburn had gone ashore in the steward's boat, and had not yet returned. He was the only person on board, besides myself, who had liberty to leave the vessel without my permission, or his, if I was not on board. But the steamer had been put in perfect order the day before, and she never was in better condition than when I looked her over after breakfast.
Westerfelt's hands were over his face, but he took them down when he heard Washburn's step. "Did did she hurt herself when she fell?" he asked. "No, she's all right." Washburn hesitated a moment, then he added: "Mr. Westerfelt, you ought to go up to yore room an' try to rest some; this night's been purty rough on you atter bein' down in bed so long."
Washburn and I got out, and gathered half a cord or so of the vines, thus loaded with blossoms, and the wagon was as fragrant as a perfume shop. We entered a forest of pines, where we found a house built by a couple of young men who had been several years in Cuba, and intended to cultivate the sugar-cane.
"He might like to spend a few days here, and Uncle Harry said he could take a tent if he liked." "Ask Frank Haley, too," suggested Amy. "And Percy Falconer!" added Mollie, with a sly glance at Betty. "Don't you dare!" came the protest. "I meant Allen Washburn," corrected Mollie. "He can't come he has to take the bar examinations!" cried Betty, quickly. "How do you know?" she was challenged.
Who was she, Betty Nelson, to call this glorious Lieutenant Allen Washburn, her Allen? So engrossed was she in these and other absorbing thoughts that it was some time before she noticed that the conversation had taken another turn. Also that the boys and girls were becoming rather excited. "I didn't say it was a ghost," Mollie was declaring hotly.
A handful of sturdy young people were taking their way to Lincoln College, the little stone structure that was to be dignified a month later by a new title, Washburn College, in honor of its great benefactor, Ichabod Washburn. "Why did the powers put the State Capitol and the College so far from town, I wonder," I said as we loitered about the walls of the former.
Taking the locket from the box, Lyle handed it, unopen, to Houston, saying as she did so, "This is the only clue I have by which to find my friends; it contains my mother's picture, and my own name, Marjorie Lyle Washburn." "Washburn!" exclaimed Houston in surprise, pausing as he was about to open the locket. "Washburn! Marjorie Washburn!
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