“What a division!” protested Peter Dillon, as he climbed into Ruth’s automobile and took his seat next Bab.  “Do you suppose, for one instant, that we are going to see Hugh Post drive off, the only man among three girls?  Not if I can help it!”

The two automobiles traveled swiftly through Washington allowing the four “Automobile Girls” only tantalizing glimpses of the executive buildings which they passed on the way.

In about an hour the cars covered the sixteen miles that lay between the Capital City and the home of its first President.

Such a deep and abiding tranquillity pervaded the atmosphere of Mt.  Vernon that the noisy chatter of the young people was, for an instant, hushed into silence, as they drove through the great iron gates at the entrance to Mt.  Vernon, and on up the elm-shaded lawn to the house.

Although it was December, the fall had been unusually warm and the trees were not yet bare of their autumn foliage; the grass still looked smooth and green under foot.

The “Automobile Girls” held their breath as their eyes rested on the most famous historic home in America.

“Oh, Ruth!” exclaimed Bab.  But when she saw Peter’s eyes smiling at her enthusiasm she stopped and would not say another word.

Of course, Mt.  Vernon was an old story to Mrs. Wilson, to Harriet, and indeed to the entire party, except the four girls.  But they wished to see every detail of the Washington house.  They went into the wide hall and there beheld the key to the Bastile presented by Lafayette to General Washington.  They examined the music room, with its queer, old-fashioned musical instruments; went up to Martha Washington’s bedroom and even looked upon the white-canopied bed where George Washington died.  Indeed, they wandered from garret to cellar in the old house.  But it was a beautiful afternoon and the outdoors called them at last.

And, after all, it is the outdoors at Mt.  Vernon that is most beautiful.  The house is a simple country home with a wide, old-fashioned portico and gallery built of frame and painted to look like stone.

But there is no palace on the Rhine, no castle in Spain, that has a more beautiful natural situation than Mt.  Vernon.  It stands on a piece of gently swelling land that slopes gradually down to the Potomac, and commands a view of many miles of the broad and noble river.

Bab and Ruth managed to get away from the rest of their party and to slip out on the wide colonnaded veranda.

“How peaceful and beautiful it is out here,” Ruth exclaimed, with her arm around her friend’s waist.  “It seems to me that, if I lived in Washington, I would just run out here whenever anything uncomfortable happened to me.  I am sure, if I spent the day at Mt.  Vernon, I should not feel trouble any more.”

Barbara stood silent.  A vague premonition of some possible trouble overtook her.

“Ruth,” Bab asked suddenly, “do you like Harriet’s friend, Peter Dillon?  Every now and then he talks to me in the most mysterious fashion.  I don’t understand what he means.”