This, however,
was of no special concern to them, and they continued their playing.
Each went through the next series without a break. Tim was certainly
doing himself honor, and his sister was at a loss to understand it.
But you know that on some days the player of any game does much better
than on others. This was one of Tim's best days and one of Maggie's
worst, for he again surpassed her, though there could be no doubt that
she did her very best, and she could not repress her chagrin. But she
was too fond of her bright brother to feel anything in the nature of
resentment for his success.
"There's one thing certain," she said, shaking her curly head with
determination; "you can't beat me again."
"I wouldn't be so rash, sister; remember that I mean bus'ness to-day."
"Just as if you haven't always done your best; it's you that are
bragging, not I."
Tim had taken the stones in his right hand with the purpose of giving
them the necessary toss in the air, when a blast of wind struck the
barn with a force that made it tremble. They distinctly felt the
tremor of the floor beneath them. He paused and looked into the
startled face of his sister with the question:
"Hadn't we better run to the house?"
"No," she replied, her heart so set on beating him that she felt less
fear than she would have felt had it been otherwise; "it's as safe here
as in the house; one is as strong as the other; if you want to get out
of finishing the game, why, I'll let you off.
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