Butterfly began racing through space toward the Mortlake plant.

The naval officer, quick to guess her plan, laughed as happily as a mischievous boy.

"What a lark!" he exclaimed. "It's contrary to all discipline, but it's jolly good fun."

Peggy turned a small brass-capped valve—the timer. At once the aeroplane showed accelerated speed. It fairly cut through the air. Both the occupants were glad to lower their goggles to protect their eyes from the sharp, cutting sensation of the atmosphere, as they rushed against it—into its teeth, as it were.

Peggy glanced at the indicator. The black pointer on the white dial was creeping up—fifty, sixty, sixty-two—she would show this officer what the Prescott monoplane could do.

"Sixty-four! Great Christmas!"

The exclamation came from the officer. He had leaned forward and scanned the indicator eagerly.

"We'll do better when we have our new type of motor installed," said Peggy, with a confident nod. The young fellow gasped.

"This is the twentieth century with a vengeance," he murmured, sinking back in his rear seat, which was as comfortably upholstered as the luxurious tonneau of a five-thousand-dollar automobile.

Like a darting, pouncing swallow, seeking its food in mid-air, the Golden Butterfly swooped, soared and dived in long, graceful gradients above the Mortlake plant. Once Peggy brought the aeroplane so close to the ground in a long, swinging sweep, that it seemed as if it could never recover enough "way" to rise again. Even the officer, trained in a strict school to repress his emotions, tightened his lips, and then opened them to emit a relieved gasp.

So close to the gaping machinists and the anger-crimsoned Mortlake did the triumphant aeroplane swoop, that Peggy, to her secret amusement could trace the astonished look on the faces of the employees and the chagrined expression that darkened Mortlake's countenance.

"I guess I've given them something to think over," she said mischievously, flinging back a brilliant smile at the dazed young officer.

"Now," she exclaimed the next moment, "for a distance flight. I'm anxious to put the Golden Butterfly through all her paces. Oh, by the way, the balancer. I haven't shown you how that works yet."

If Peggy's bright eyes had not been veiled by goggles, the officer might have seen a mischievous gleam flash into them, like a wind ripple over the placid surface of a blue lake.

Suddenly the aeroplane slanted to one side, as if it must turn over. Peggy had banked it on a sharp aerial curve. The young officer, in spite of himself, in defiance of his training, gave a gasp.

"I say——"

But the words had hardly left his lips before the aeroplane was back on a level keel once more. At the same time a rasping, sliding sound was heard.

"Like to see how that was done?" asked Peggy, with a bewitching smile.

"Yes. By Jove, I thought we were over for an instant. But how——"

"That we shall be glad to show you when the United States government has contracted for a number of the Prescott aeroplanes," retorted Peggy.

The young officer bit his lip.

"Confound it," he thought, "is this chit of a girl making fun of me?"

Young officers have a high idea of their own dignity. Mr. Bradbury colored a bit with mortification. But Peggy quickly dispelled his temporary chagrin.

"You see," she explained, "it would never do for us to reveal all our secrets, would it? You agree with me, don't you?"

"Oh, perfectly. You are quite right. Still, I confess that you have aroused all my inquisitiveness."

Peggy being busied just then with a bit of machinery on the bulkhead separating the motor from the body of the chassis, made no reply. But presently, when she looked up, she gave a sharp exclamation.

The sky, as if by magic, had grown suddenly dark. Above the pulsating voice of the motor could be heard the rumble of thunder. All at once a vivid flash of lightning leaped across the horizon. One of those sudden storms of summer had blown up from the sea, and Peggy knew enough of Long Island weather to know that these disturbances were usually accompanied by terrific winds—squalls and gusts that no aeroplane yet built or thought of could hope to cope with.

"We're running into dirty weather, it seems," remarked the officer. "I thought I noticed some thunderheads away off on the horizon when we first went up."

"I wish you'd mentioned them then," said the straightforward Peggy; "as it is, we'll have to descend till this blows over."

"What, won't even the wonderful equalizer render her safe?"

"No, it won't. It will do anything reasonable. But you've no idea of the fury of the wind that comes with these black squalls."

"Indeed I have. Last summer I was off Montauk Point in the Dixie. Something went wrong with the steering gear just as one of these self-same young hurricanes came bustling up. I tell you, it was "all hands and the cook" for a while. It hardly blows much harder in a typhoon."

Peggy gazed below her over the darkening landscape anxiously. There seemed to be trees, trees everywhere, and not a bit of cleared ground. All at once, as they cleared some woods, she spied a bit of meadowland. The hay which had covered it earlier in the summer had been cropped. It afforded an ideal landing-place. But the wind was puffy now, and Peggy did not dare to attempt short descending spirals. Instead, trusting to the balancing device doing its duty faithfully, she swung down in long circles.

Just as they touched the ground with a gentle shock, much minimized, thanks to the shock-absorbers with which the Golden Butterfly was fitted, the storm burst in all its fury. Bolt after bolt of vivid lightning ripped and tore across the darkened sky, which hung like a pall behind the terrific electrical display. The rain came down in torrents.

"Just in time," laughed the young officer, as he aided Peggy in dragging the aeroplane under the shelter of an open cart-shed. It was quite snug and dry once they had it under the roof. A short distance off stood a farm-house of fairly comfortable appearance. Smoke issuing from one of its chimneys showed that it was occupied.

"Let's go over there and see if we can dry our things," suggested Peggy. "I'm wet through."

"Same here," was the laughing reply; "but a sailor doesn't mind that. One actually gets webbed feet in the navy—like ducks, you know."

Ignoring this remarkable contribution to natural history, Peggy gathered up her skirts daintily and fled across the meadow to the farm-house. It was only a few hundred feet, but the rain came down so hard that both she and her escort were wetter than ever by the time they arrived at the door. It was shut, and except for the lazy wisps of smoke issuing from the chimney, there was no sign of life about the place.

The lieutenant knocked thunderously. No answer.

"Try again," said Peggy; "maybe they are in some other part of the house."

"Perhaps they were scared of the aeroplane and have all retired into hiding," suggested Mr. Bradbury.

He rapped again, louder this time, but still no reply.

"They must all be asleep," he said, applying himself once more to a thunderous assault on the door, but to no avail. A silence hung about the place, broken only by the roar and rattle of the thunder.

"It's positively uncanny," shuddered Peggy. "It's like Red Riding Hood and the Three Little Bears."

"One would think that even a bear would open the door on such an occasion as this," said her companion, redoubling his efforts to attract attention. Finally he gave the door handle a twist. It yielded, and the door was speedily found to be unlocked. The officer shoved it open and disclosed a neat farm-house kitchen. In a newly blackened stove, which fairly shone, was a blazing fire. An old clock ticked sturdily in one corner. The floor was scrubbed as white as snow, and on a shelf above the shining stove was an