E-text prepared by Roger Frank

“Rode down the hill into the valley.”

THE GIRL FROM THE BIG HORN COUNTRY
By
MARY ELLEN CHASE
Illustrated by
R. FARRINGTON ELWELL
THE PAGE COMPANY
BOSTON—MDCCCCXVI

Copyright, 1916,
by the Page Company
All rights reserved
First Impression, January, 1916
Second Impression, March, 1916
Third Impression, May, 1916
Fourth Impression, June, 1916
Fifth Impression, August, 1916
PRESSWORK BY
THE COLONIAL PRESS
C. H. SIMONDS COMPANY, BOSTON, U. S. A.

TO THE MEMORY
OF MY FATHER
WHO, PERHAPS, KNOWS, AND IS GLAD

CONTENTS

[CHAPTER I—VIRGINIA'S COUNTRY]
[CHAPTER II—THE LAST NIGHT AT HOME]
[CHAPTER III—THE JOURNEY EAST]
[CHAPTER IV—VERMONT AS VIRGINIA SAW IT]
[CHAPTER V—THE "BROADENING EXPERIENCE" BEGINS]
[CHAPTER VI—ST. HELEN'S AND THE HERMITAGE]
[CHAPTER VII—"PERTAINING ESPECIALLY TO DECORUM"]
[CHAPTER VIII—THE LAST STRAW]
[CHAPTER IX—THE THANKSGIVING ORATION OF LUCILE DU BOSE]
[CHAPTER X—THANKSGIVING AND MISS WALLACE]
[CHAPTER XI—THE DISCIPLINING OF MISS VAN RENSAELAR]
[CHAPTER XII—THE VIGILANTES]
[CHAPTER XIII—THE TEST OF CARVER STANDISH III]
[CHAPTER XIV—WYOMING HOSPITALITY.]
[CHAPTER XV—VESPER SERVICE]
[CHAPTER XVI—A SPRING-TIME ROMANCE]
[CHAPTER XVII—THE VIGILANTES INITIATE]
[CHAPTER XVIII—THE HEART-BROKEN MISS WALLACE]
[CHAPTER XIX—THE SENIOR PAGEANT]
[CHAPTER XX—THE VIGILANTES’ LAST MEETING]
[CHAPTER XXI—HOME ONCE MORE]

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

[“Rode down the hill into the valley.”]
[“Forded the creek in a mad splash of water.”]
[“Jim, scorning assistance, had risen from his chair and stood facing his audience.”]
[“Some rods ahead, Virginia espied a lone figure in a gray shawl.”]
[“Virginia knelt by the altar rail.”]
[“She sat her horse like a knight of old.”]
[“The road lay at the very base of the green foot-hills.”]

THE GIRL FROM THE BIG HORN COUNTRY

CHAPTER I—VIRGINIA’S COUNTRY

A September afternoon in the Big Horn mountains! The air crystal clear; the sky cloudless; the outlines of the hills distinct! Elk Creek Valley lay golden in the sunshine, silent save for the incessant hum of locust and cricket, the hurrying of the creek waters, and the occasional bellowing of steers on the range beyond the foot-hills; deserted except for the distant cattle, a coyote stealing across the hills, a pheasant scurrying through the buck-brush by the creek, and some cotton-tail rabbits and prairie dogs, who, sure of safety, meant to enjoy the sunshine while they might.

The foot-hills more than half-encircled the Valley. North, east, and south they tumbled, their brown, closely-cropped sides glowing here and there with the yellow of the quaking-asps, the red of hawthorn, and the bronze of service-berry. Above them rose the higher ranges, clothed in gray-green sagebrush and scant timber, and cut by canyon-forming mountain storms, invisible from the Valley; and far above all, seemingly near, but in reality miles away, the mountains extended their blue, snow-furrowed summits toward a bluer sky. Peak above peak they rose—some isolated and alone, others leaning upon the shoulders of the higher—all silent, majestic, mysterious, as though they held in their great hearts the secrets of the world—secrets of which Elk Creek Valley could never know. Yet the Valley looked very happy and content. Perhaps it had lain so long beneath their protection that it knew no fear.

The creek, rushing madly from the northern foothills, and fed by melting snow from the higher mountains, had cut a canyon for itself in its tumultuous journey from the hills; but as the land became more level, it slackened its pace, content to make but a slight depression through the Valley. Across it toward the west, beyond a great gap in the foothills, stretched an open plateau, which rose in undulations, and extended as far as one could see toward other far distant mountains, on less clear days dim and hazy of outline, to-day almost as blue and distinct as the nearer ranges, though sixty miles away. This great sea of open prairie rolling westward was cut in as many pieces and bore as many colors as a patchwork quilt. Golden wheat-fields, the wheat shocked and piled in wigwams on the plain, met acres of black, freshly-plowed soil, which, in turn, bordered upon the tender green of alfalfa and of newly grown winter grain. Scattered over the prairie stretches, at intervals of a mile, perhaps of several, were homes—here, large ranch houses with out-lying buildings—there, the rough shack of a lone homesteader.

Yes, it was a golden land—smiling and peaceful in the September sunshine. Save for horses and cattle dotted here and there, the prairie seemed almost as deserted as Elk Creek Valley, though its homes promised inhabitants, and a blue line of distant smoke showed where the threshers were at work. Moreover, on the barely visible brown road that threaded its way across the prairie, two specks were moving rapidly in the direction of the Gap. The specks took form, became two riders, a boy and a girl, on wildly galloping horses, which, neck to neck, tore at last through the Gap, forded the creek in a mad splash of water, stirrup-high, and dashed away up the Valley. Reaching the foot-hills a trifle in advance of his companion, the boy pulled in his restive horse, and called over his shoulder to the girl just behind.

“Are Pedro’s feet all right, Virginia?”

“Yes, Don. Jim fixed them yesterday.”

“Let’s take the Mine then, shall we?”

“Yes, let’s!”

And away they went, allowing the sure-footed horses to have their way up one of the foot-hills, called the “Mine,” because some lone prospector, dreaming of a fortune, had dug from its side some poor coal; and then, perhaps discouraged, had abandoned the fruit of his labors, leaving the black heap as a monument to his zeal, and a testimony to the vanity of mere dreams.

They reached the hill-top almost at the same instant, their good steeds panting; they quite undisturbed, and, turning their horses’ heads, drew rein and looked across the Valley. They were a robust-looking pair, red-cheeked and khaki-clad, and as good riders as Wyoming could produce. The boy was seventeen, or thereabouts, well-knit and tall for his years, with dark, heavy hair and clear, blue eyes that looked bluer through his coat of tan. His features were cleanly-cut and strong, and his mouth had a laugh in the corners. A merry, honest, manly-looking lad—Donald Keith by name, and the son of a ranchman on the other side of the Valley.

“Forded the creek in a mad splash of water.”

She—Virginia Hunter—was a year younger, and for sixteen as tall and strong as he for seventeen. She was not pretty, but there was something singularly attractive about her clear, fresh skin, brown now, except for the red of her cheeks, her even white teeth, and her earnest gray eyes, at times merry, but often thoughtful, which looked so straight at you from under brows and lashes of black. Her golden-brown hair curled about her temples, but it was brushed back quite simply and braided down her back where it was well out of her way. A person riding could not bother about her hair. She sat her horse as though he were a part of her, holding her reins loosely in her brown left hand, her right hanging idly at her side. The wind blew back the loosened hair about her face, and the ends of the red handkerchief, knotted cow-boy fashion, under the collar of her khaki shirt. She, like the boy, seemed a part of the country—free, natural, wholesome—and she shared its charm.

They had been comrades for years—these two—for, in the ranch country, homes are often widely separated, and the frequent society of many persons rare. Virginia’s home lay up the Valley, beyond the first range of the foot-hills, while the Keith ranch was situated on the prairie, west beyond the Gap. Three miles apart across country, four by the road; but three or four miles in Wyoming are like so many squares in Boston, and the Keiths and Hunters considered themselves near neighbors. This afternoon Virginia had ridden over to say good-by to all the dear Keiths—Mr. David, Mother Mary, Donald’s older brother Malcolm, and his younger, Kenneth, the farm-hands busy with the threshing, and the men in from the range to help with the wheat; for they were all her friends, and now that she was going so far away to school, they seemed nearer and dearer—indeed, next to her father and those upon their own ranch, the dearest of her world.

They had been quite as sad as she to say good-by. “The country won’t be the same without you, my lass,” Mr. David had said in his genial Scotch way; and Donald’s mother, whom Virginia had called “Mother Mary,” since the death of her own dear mother six years ago, had kissed her quite as though she were her own daughter. Even Malcolm had come in from the wheat field to shake her by the hand and wish her good luck, and little Kenneth’s feelings had been quite wounded because Virginia felt she must decline to carry one of his pet foxes away with her to boarding-school. Then Donald’s father had granted the request in the boy’s eyes that he might be excused from threshing to ride up the Valley and home with Virginia. So now their horses, good friends, too, stood side by side on the brow of the Mine, while their riders looked down the Valley, beyond the cottonwood-bordered creek, and across the wide, rolling prairie to the far away mountains; and then, turning in their saddles, to those ranges and peaks towering above them.

Virginia drew a long breath.

“We’re like Moses on Mount Nebo, looking away into the Promised Land, aren’t we, Don?” Then, as he laughed, “Do you suppose there’s any country so lovely as ours? Is there anything in the East like this? Do you think I’ll be homesick, Don?”

He laughed again, used to her questions.

“I suppose every fellow thinks his own State is the best, Virginia, but I don’t believe there can be any lovelier than this. You know I told you about spending a vacation when I was at school last year with Jack Williams in the Berkshires. Some of those hills aren’t higher than the Mine, you know, and he called them mountains. It seemed like a mighty small country to me, but he thought there was no place like it. I wish he could get this sweep of country from here. No, the East isn’t like this,—not a bit—and maybe you won’t like it, but you’re too plucky to be homesick, Virginia.”

Little did Virginia realize how often those words would ring in her ears through the months that were to follow. She drew another long breath—almost a sigh this time.

“Oh, I wish you were going East again, Don, instead of to Colorado! ’Twould be such fun traveling together, and you could tell me all about the states as we went through them. But, instead, I’m going all alone, and Aunt Louise has warned me a dozen times about talking to strangers. Four days without talking, Don! I shall die! Is it very bad taste to talk to good, oldish-looking people, do you think?”

“I think your aunt’s mighty particular, if you ask me,” the boy said bluntly. “You’ll have to talk to some one, Virginia. You’ll never last four days without it, and I don’t think it’s any harm. But, you see, your aunt’s from the East, and they’re not so sociable as we are out here. I thought she was going East with you.”

“No, she decided not to, and went to Los Angeles this morning; but I’m bursting with watch-words that she left. All the way to your house I said them over, and I nearly ran Pedro into a prairie dog’s hole, I was thinking so hard. I. It is very bad form to talk to strangers. II. Try to be as neat in appearance on the train as you are at home. (Aunt Lou really means neater, Don.) III. Don’t forget to tip the waiter after each meal in the dining-car. IV. Be polite to your traveling companions, but not familiar. That’s all for the journey, but I’ve heaps more for Vermont and for school. Oh, why did you choose Colorado, Don?”

“Oh, I don’t know, except that it’s nearer home, and since I’m going there to college in another year, I may as well get used to it. The East is all right, Virginia, but some way I like it out here better. I’m a rank cow-boy, I guess. That’s what they used to call me at school. Then, besides, the Colorado fellows ride a lot, and they don’t in the East—that is, so much, you know,” he added hastily, as he saw the dismay on her face.

“Don’t ride, Don! Why, I can’t stand it not to ride! Don’t they have horses? Don’t they—know how to ride?”

Her genuine distress disturbed him, and he hastened to reassure her as best he could.

“You’ll find something to ride, I’m sure,” he said. “Don’t worry. Maybe the horses won’t be like Pedro, but they’ll do. You see, your school’s in a larger town than mine. You’ll write me all about it, won’t you, Virginia?”

“Of course, I will—every little thing. If the boys thought you were a cow-boy, the girls will probably think I’m very queer, too.”

“Oh, no, they won’t! You’re—you’re different some way. And, anyway, they won’t be as nice as you,” he finished awkwardly.

Virginia, full of questions, did not heed the honest compliment.

“What are Eastern girls like, Don? Have you seen many? You see, I’ve never known one, except in books. Margaret Montfort certainly was different. Besides, you know what a time Peggy had when she went East to school, and she was only from Ohio.”

Donald knew nothing of Margaret or Peggy, and felt incompetent to remark upon them; but he answered Virginia’s questions.

“I used to see them last year at school,” he said, “at the dances and at Commencement. And in the Berkshires, I knew Jack’s sister, Mary. She’s great, Virginia. I hope there are some like her. She’s at some school, but I forget where. Oh, I guess they’re nice. You see, at parties, when they’re all dressed up, you can’t get real well-acquainted.”

“Dressed up!” cried Virginia. “Don, you ought to see the clothes I’ve got! And trunks like closets?—two of them! Aunt Lou bought my things in Chicago for father. He told her to get what I’d need, and when all the boxes came, he grew more and more surprised. He thought they had sent a lot for us to choose from; and when Aunt Lou told him it was only my ‘necessary wardrobe,’ he just sat down and laughed. Then I had to try them all on—six pairs of shoes, and sailor-suits, and coats and sweaters and dinner dresses, and goodness knows what all! It took the whole afternoon. That was the one last week, you know, when I didn’t get to go hunting prairie chickens with you. And Aunt Lou made me walk back and forth in the dinner dresses until I could ‘act natural,’ she said.” She paused laughing, and the boy looked at her, his face troubled.

“I hope all those things and going away off there won’t make you different, Virginia,” he said, a little wistfully.

“Of course, they won’t!” she told him. “I couldn’t be any different, Don. If it weren’t for the fun of wondering about things, I’d never want to go even a little, but it will be new and interesting. Besides, you know Aunt Lou says it’s ‘imperative’ that I go. I heard her say that to father one night this summer. ‘It’s imperative that Virginia go,’ she said. ‘She’s getting really wild out here with just you men, and that woman in the kitchen.’ ‘That woman’ means old Hannah, who’s been so good to us ever since mother died!”

Donald looked angry for a moment. Apparently he did not care a great deal for Virginia’s Aunt Louise.

“What did your father say?”

“He didn’t say anything, like he doesn’t when he’s thinking or troubled; but, next morning, he told me he was going to send me East to mother’s old school. He said he guessed I needed to see different things. Aunt Lou was there when he told me, and she said, ‘It will be the making of you, Virginia,—a very broadening experience!’”

“I don’t think I’d like your aunt very well,” Donald announced bluntly.

Virginia was not surprised. “No, I’m sure you wouldn’t, and I don’t think she’d like you either. That is, she ought to like you, and maybe she would, but she probably wouldn’t approve. She’s a person that doesn’t often approve of things. She doesn’t approve of my shooting, or of Jim teaching me to lasso the steers in the corral; and that afternoon when I wanted to go rabbit hunting with you instead of trying on dresses, I heard her tell father that I was getting to be rather too much of a young lady to ride the country over with you. But father laughed and laughed, and said he’d as soon have me with you as with himself.”

Donald looked pleased. Then—

“I hope you won’t get to be too much of a young lady while you’re gone, Virginia,” he said, “so you won’t care for hunting and—and things like that, next summer.”

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I won’t be a young lady for years. I hate to even think of it! But we must go down, Don. The sun says five o’clock, and it’s my last evening with father.”

Her gray eyes, thoughtful and almost sad, swept the country before her.

“I hate to leave you all,” she said softly, a little catch in her voice. “The valley and the creek and the cottonwoods and the prairie—all of you. And, most of all, the foot-hills. You know, Don,” she continued, turning toward him, “I think I like the foot-hills best. They’re so sort of friendly, and they don’t make you feel little like the mountains. You know what I mean!”

He nodded with quick understanding. They turned their horses to look at the peaks towering above them.

“Sometimes they really scare me,” she said almost in a whisper. “They’re so big, and look as though they knew so many things. Sometimes I wish they’d talk, and then I know if they did, I’d run and hide, I’d be so frightened at what they were going to say.” Her eyes left the mountains and swept across the nearer hills. Suddenly she grasped his arm, all excitement. “Hst, Don!” she whispered, her eyes gleaming. “There! Behind that clump of pine on the range! Not a quarter of a mile away! Bess and the new colt! I know the way she holds her head. Wait a minute! There she is! She’s seen us, and there she goes!”

With a wild snort, which they could hear distinctly in the clear air, and a mad kick of the heels, the horse tore away across the range, her colt trying manfully with his long ungainly legs to keep near his mother. Months on the range had transformed Bess from a corral pet to a wild steed, suspicious even of her mistress, and mindful only of her safety and that of her colt.

“A nice colt,” said Don, “and now she’s down this far she won’t go far away. Doesn’t your father brand this week? They’ll probably mark the little fellow with the rest.”

“Yes, I suppose they will. That’s one thing I can’t bear to see—the branding. Father and Jim will be so glad to know about the colt. You can break it for me, Don, when it’s two years old.”

“All right, I’ll not forget,” he promised.

Then they turned again, and rode down the hill into the valley. This time they did not ford the creek, but turned north, following an old trail up the valley and through another gap in the hills a mile above. This brought them again to the open, where Virginia’s home lay—a long, rambling house with its back against the foot-hills and its front looking westward across the prairie. Tall cottonwoods shaded the brown road that led to it; and down this road, beneath the trees, they rode, more slowly now.

A tall man, reading on the broad front porch, rose as they drew rein under the cottonwoods.

“Come in to supper, Don,” he called cordially. “It’s all ready, and we’re glad to have you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hunter, but I can’t. I’ve got to be making for home. Good-by, Virginia,” he said, jumping from his horse to shake hands with her, as she stood beside her father. “I’m going to be lonesome without you. Don’t forget us, will you?”

“Good-by, Don.” She had the same little catch in her voice as upon the hills, and her eyes were grave again. “I’ll miss you, and, of course, I won’t forget. And, Don,” she called, as he swung himself into his saddle and galloped away, “remember, I’ll not be a young lady when I come back!”

CHAPTER II—THE LAST NIGHT AT HOME

In the mountain country the twilights are longer and the sunset colors lovelier than anywhere else. Long after Virginia and her father, supper over, had come out upon the porch to sit together, the golden light lingered in the western sky, making more blue the far distant mountains, throwing the prairie into shadow, and casting upon the nearer eastern foot-hills a strange, almost violet glow. Slowly the gold changed to the deep, almost transparent blue of the mountain sky at night. The sunset light faded to give place to the stars, which, when the twilight was almost gone, seemed to shine out all at once, as if fearful of the sunset’s lingering too long.

It was very still everywhere. Virginia sat in her favorite way—on a low stool by her father’s chair, her head upon his knees, his hand in hers. Together they watched the light fade and the stars come out, as they had done for so many nights. No sound anywhere, except Hannah’s steps in the kitchen, an occasional distant laugh or song from the men in the bunk-house, and the night noises—the stirring of the cottonwoods and the singing of the insects.

For a long time neither of them spoke, and the realization coming closer every moment that this evening would be their last chance to talk together for many months, did not seem to make conversation easier. The big man in his chair was reviewing the years—thinking of the time, twenty-five years back, when he had first come to this country—then wild and unbroken like its own animals and roaming horses. He had come like countless other young men, seeking a new life, adventure, fortune; and he had stayed, having found an abundance of the first two, and enough of the last. In the darkness he saw the distant, widely separated lights of the homes on the prairie—that prairie which he as a young man had ridden across, then sagebrush-covered, the home of the antelope, the prairie dog, and the rattler; now, intersected with irrigation ditches, covered with wheat fields, dotted with homes. Yet the land possessed its old charm for him. It was still a big country. The mountains had not changed; the plains, though different in feature, stretched as wide; the sky was as vast. He loved this land, so much that it had become a part of him; but his little daughter at his feet he was sending away that she might know another life.

He looked down at her. She was thinking, too—filled with a great desire to stay in her own dear, Western country, and with another as great to experience all the new things which this year was to bring her. Homesickness and anticipation were fighting hard. She looked up at her father, and even in the darkness saw the sadness in his face. Lost in her own thoughts, she had left him out—him, whose loneliness would be far greater than her own. She sprang up from her stool and into his lap, as she had always done before the years had made her such a big girl; and he held her close in his strong arms, while she cried softly against his shoulder.

“Daddy,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Daddy, dear, do you suppose people often want two different things so much that they can’t tell which they want the most? Did you ever?”

He held her closer. “Yes, little girl. I expect many people do that very thing when it comes to deciding. And your dad is doing that very thing this minute. He thinks he wants to keep you right here with him, but he knows away down deep that he wouldn’t let you stay if he could. He knows he wants his little daughter to go away to her mother’s school, and to have everything this big world can give her.”

“But it’s going to be so lonely for you, father. I’m so selfish, just thinking of me, and never of you. I can’t leave you all alone!” And the tears came again.

Silently he smoothed her hair, until with a choking little laugh she raised her head.

“Don would call me a quitter, I guess,” she said. “I’m homesick already, and he said to-day of course I’d be too plucky to be homesick.” She laughed again. “I’m not going to cry another tear. And there are so many things I want to ask you. Father, tell me truly, do you like the folks in Vermont? Will I like them, do you think?”

She waited for what seemed to her long minutes before he answered her.

“Virginia,” he said at last, “your mother’s people are not like us away out here. They are of New England stock and know nothing of our life here, and it naturally seems rough to them. Your mother seemed to have a different strain in her, else she had never come to Wyoming, and stayed to marry a ranchman like me. But they are your mother’s people, and as such I honor and respect them. And I want you to like them, Virginia, for your mother’s sake.”

“I will, father,” she whispered, clinging to him. “I promise I will!” A minute later she laughed again.

“I’ve written down all of Aunt Lou’s warnings, and I’ll learn them all on the train. Are grandmother and Aunt Nan like Aunt Lou, father?”

“I don’t quite remember. Your grandmother is a lady, and looks it. Your Aunt Nan was but a little girl of your age when I saw her, but I think she’s—well, a little less particular than your Aunt Lou, judging from her letters. I have been wrong,” he continued after a pause, “in not sending you on to them in the summers, but I could not go, and it seemed a long way to have you go without me. And though we’ve always asked them, none of them has ever come here, until your Aunt Lou came this summer.”

“Why didn’t mother go oftener?”

He hesitated a moment. “Some way she didn’t want to leave for so long. She loved this Big Horn country as much as you and I. We went together once before you came; and then the summer you were five years old she took you and went again. But that was the last time. Do you remember it?”

“I remember the tall clock on the stairs. I held the pendulum one day and stopped it, and grandmother said it had not stopped for seventy-five years. Then she scolded me, and told mother I was a little wild thing—not a bit like my mother—and mother cried and said she wished we were back home with you.”

They were silent again, listening to the wind in the cottonwoods. A long silence, then her father said quietly,

“Your grandmother was wrong. You are very like your mother. But I am sorry you had to look like your dad. It will disappoint them in Vermont.”

Virginia’s eyes in the darkness sparkled dangerously. She sat up very straight.

“If they don’t like the way I look,” she announced deliberately, “I’ll go on to school, and not trouble them. I’m proud of looking like my father, and I shall tell them so!”

Her father watched her proudly. Back through the years he heard her mother’s voice:

“If they don’t like the man I’ve married, we’ll come back to the mountains, and not torment them!”

A creaking sound, occurring regularly at intervals of a few seconds, came from the road back of the house leading to the ranch buildings, and gradually grew more distinct.

“Jim’s coming,” said Virginia. “He isn’t going on the round-up to-morrow, is he, father? Don’t let him go, please!”

The creaking drew nearer, accompanied by hard, exhausted breathing.

“No,” her father told her, his voice low. “I’m not going to let him go. He’s too worn out and old for that work, though it’s wonderful how he rides with that wooden leg; but I can’t tell him he shan’t take charge of the branding. He couldn’t stand that disappointment. Come on, Jim,” he called cheerily. “We’re on the porch.”

Virginia echoed her father. “Come and talk with us, Jim.”

“I’m a-comin’,” came from the corner of the porch, “fast as this old stick’ll bring me. Ain’t much the way I used to come, is it, sir? But stick or leg, I’m good for years yet. Lord, Miss Virginia, I’m a-goin’ to teach your boys and girls how to throw the rope!” And talking as he wheezed and creaked, Jim reached the porch and laboriously stumped up the steps.

Jim was an old man, fifty of whose seventy years had been spent on the ranges and ranches of the Great West. He had grown with the country, moving westward as the tide moved, from Iowa to Kansas and Nebraska, Nebraska to the Dakotas, and from the Dakotas to Montana and Wyoming. No phase of the life West had escaped Jim. He had fought Indians and cattle-thieves, punched cattle and homesteaded, prospected and mined. Twenty years before, seeking more adventure, he had made his way on horseback through the mountains to Arizona. Whether he found what he sought, he never told, but five years later, he appeared again in Wyoming, and since that time he had been with Mr. Hunter, whom he had known when the country was new. Had his education equaled his honesty and foresight, Mr. Hunter would long ago have made him foreman, for he had no man whom he so fully trusted; but Jim’s limited knowledge of letters and figures prohibited that distinction, and he remained in one sense an ordinary ranch-hand, apparently content. Still, in another sense, there was something unique about his position. The younger men looked up to him, because of his wide experience and fund of practical knowledge; Mr. Hunter relied implicitly upon his honesty, and consulted him upon many matters of ranch management; and, next to her father, there was no one in all Wyoming whom Virginia so loved.

Jim had taught her to ride when her short legs could hardly reach the stirrups; had told her the names of every tree, bush, and flower of the hills and plains; and had been her guard and companion on expeditions far and wide. As she grew older, he gave and taught her how to use her small rifle; and of late had even given her lessons in swinging the lasso in the corral, in which art he was dexterity itself. And last winter Virginia had been able to repay him,—though all through the years she had given him far more than she knew,—for in the autumn round-up, Jim, galloping over the range, had been thrown from his horse, when the animal stumbled into a prairie dog’s hole, and the fall had broken his leg.

The chagrin of the old cow-puncher was more pitiable to witness than his pain, when the boys brought him in to the ranch. That he, the veteran of the range, should have behaved thus—“like the rankest tenderfoot”—was almost more than his proud spirit could withstand; and later, when the doctor said the leg below the knee must be sacrificed, the pain and loss, even the necessity of stumping about the rest of his days, seemed as nothing to him compared with the shame he felt over his “tenderfoot foolishness.”

The winter days would have been endless, indeed, had not Virginia been there to cheer him. Mr. Hunter would not hear of his staying in the bunk-house, but brought him to the ranch,—and there, under Hannah’s faithful nursing, and Virginia’s companionship, the old man forgot a little of his chagrin and humiliation. Virginia read to him by the hour, nearly everything she had, and her books were many. Seventy is a strange age to receive a long-deferred education, but Jim profited by every chapter, even from “David Copperfield,” who, he privately thought, was “a white-livered kind of fool” and his patience in listening to David, Virginia rewarded by the convict scene in her own dear “Great Expectations,” or by “Treasure Island,” both of which he never tired.

Then, when he was able to sit up, even to stump about a little, Virginia, having reviewed the venture in her own mind, suggested bravely one day that he learn to read, for he barely knew his letters, so that while she was at school the hours might not drag so wearily for him. A little to her surprise, the old man assented eagerly, and took his first lesson that very hour, He learned rapidly, to write as well as read, and now that his labors on the ranch were so impaired he had found it a blessing, indeed.

Of Jim’s early life no one knew. He was always reticent concerning it, and no one safely tried to penetrate his reserve. His accent betokened Scotch ancestry, but his birth-place, his parents, and his name were alike a mystery. He was known to miles of country as “Jim.” That was all. Enough, he said.

As he stood there in the open doorway, the light falling upon his bent figure, and bronzed, bearded face, Virginia realized with a quick pang of how much of her life Jim had been the center. She realized, too, how worn he looked, and how out of breath he was, and she sprang from her father’s lap.

“Come in, Jim,” she said, taking his hand in hers. “It’s cold out here. Come, father.”

They went into the big, low-storied living-room, where Hannah had lighted a fire in the great stone fire-place. The spruce logs were burning brightly, and Virginia drew her father’s big arm-chair toward the fire.

“Sit here, Jim, where it’s warm, and rest.”

Jim about to sit down, hesitated. “You see, sir, I come up on an errand with a message from the boys. If it’s all well and pleasin’ to you both, they’d like to beg permission to come up for a minute. You see, they’re leavin’ early in the mornin’ for the round-up, and they want to wish Miss Virginia good luck. If they was to come, I wasn’t to go back.”

“Why, of course, they’re to come!” cried Virginia, while her father nodded his approval. “I’d forgotten they go so early on the range, and I wouldn’t go for the world without seeing them all. Sit down, Jim. Do! Will they be right up?”

Jim sank gratefully into the big chair, placed his broad-brimmed hat on his knee, and gave a final twist to his clean bandanna.

“They was a-sprucin’ up when I left the bunk-house, kind o’ reckonin’ on your sayin’ to come along. Beats all how walkin’ with a stick takes your wind.” He was still breathing hard. Virginia watched him anxiously.

“Jim,” said Mr. Hunter, after a pause, “I wish you’d look out for the place to-morrow. I’ve some matters in town to attend to after taking Virginia in for the train, and it may be late when I get back. A man from Willow Creek thought he’d be around this week to look at some sheep. I’m thinking of selling one hundred or so of that last year lot, and I’ll leave the choice and price to your judgment.”

“All right, sir.” This helped matters considerably. Jim himself had decided that he could not go upon the range, but here was afforded a valid excuse to give the boys. His tired face brightened.

“And, Jim,” continued Virginia, eagerly, “I almost forgot to tell you. Don and I spied Bess and the colt to-day on the lower range, not two miles from the corral. The colt’s black like Bess, and a darling! Don’t hurt it any more than you can help when you brand it, will you, Jim? Does it hurt much, do you suppose?”

“Sho’ now, don’t you worry, Miss Virginia. You see, brandin’s like most other things that don’t hurt nearly so much as you think they’re goin’ to. It ain’t bad after a minute. I’ll be careful of the little fellow. Here come the boys.”

Five stalwart forms passed the window and came to the porch, cleaning their feet carefully upon the iron mud-scraper screwed to the side of the lowest step for that very purpose. Then, a little embarrassed, they filed up the steps and into the house, the two last bearing between them a large box which they placed near the door. They were hardy men, used to a rough life, of ages varying from young Dick Norton, who was eighteen and a newcomer, to John Weeks, the foreman, a man of fifty. Roughly dressed though they were, in flannel shirts and knee-boots, they were clean, having, as Jim said, “spruced up” for the occasion. For a moment they stood ill at ease, sombreros in their hands, but only for a moment, for Mr. Hunter found them chairs, talking meanwhile of the round-up, and Virginia ran to the kitchen to ask Hannah for cider and gingerbread.

“Come in yourself, Hannah,” she said to the kind soul, who sat by the spotless pine table, knitting busily; and she begged until Hannah changed her apron and joined the circle about the fire.

“Joe,” said Virginia to a big man of thirty, whose feet worried him because they demanded so much room. “Joe, you’ll keep an eye on the littlest pup, won’t you? He has a lump in his throat, and the others pick on him. I wish you’d rub the lump with liniment; and don’t forget to tell me how he is.”

Joe promised. If the service had been for the Queen, he could not have been more honored.

“And, Alec,” to a tall Scotchman, who had a wife and family in the nearest town, “I’m leaving my black Sampson and all his clothes to little David. You’ll take them when you go in Saturday night?”

Alec beamed his thanks.

“I wish you’d use Pedro all you can, Dick.” This to the young lad, who colored and smiled. “He gets sore if he isn’t used; and give him some sugar now and then for me. He’ll miss me at first.”

She turned toward the farthest corner of the room where a man sat apart from the others—a man with a kind, almost sad face, upon the features of which the town saloon had left its mark. This was William, one of the best cattle hands in the county when he could keep away from town. To every one but Virginia he was “Bill,” but Virginia said he needed to be called William.

“William,” she said, “if you kill any snakes, I wish you’d save me the rattles. I’m collecting them. And, if you have any time, I wish you’d plant some perennial things in the bed under my window, so they’ll bloom early in June. You choose whatever you like. It’ll be more fun not to know, and then see them all in blossom when I get home. Don’t you think it would be a good plan?”

William’s tired face, on which were written the records of many hopes and failures, grew so bright with interest that he did not look like “Bill” at all. Moreover, he loved flowers.

“Just the thing, Miss Virginia,” he said. “I’ll have it ready for you in June, and I won’t forget them rattles, either.”

She thanked him. “And oh, Mr. Weeks,” she said, for she dignified the foreman by a title, “you won’t let father work too hard, will you? Because I shall worry if you don’t promise me.”

So the delighted Mr. Weeks promised, while they all laughed. Then the men looked from one another to Jim with shy, embarrassed glances, as though they were waiting for something. Jim was equal to the occasion.

“You, Joe and Dick, bring that box in front of the fire while I get up.”

Joe and Dick, glad of something to do, obeyed, lifting the big box before the fire, while Virginia stared in surprise, and her father smiled, watching her. Jim, scorning assistance, had risen from his chair and stood facing his audience, but his eyes were on Virginia.

“Miss Virginia,” he began, while the boys fumbled with their hats, “none of us ain’t forgot what you’ve been to us while you’ve been a-growin’ up. Some of us have been here a good while, and some ain’t been so long, but we’ve all been long enough to think a deal o’ you. You’ve always treated us like gentlemen, and we ain’t them that forget. This old ranch ain’t goin’ to seem the same without you, but we’re glad you’re goin’ to be educated in that school your mother went to, for those of us who knowed her, knowed a lady.

“Now there ain’t a better rider in all this country than yourself, Miss Virginia, and I can just see how you’ll make them Easterners’ eyes stick out. And we boys don’t want you to have to ride on any o’ them flat-seated English saddles, that ain’t fit for any one but a tenderfoot. So we’ve just took the liberty of gettin’ you a little remembrance of us. Joe and Dick, suppose you lift the cover, and show Miss Virginia her present.”

“Jim, scorning assistance, had risen from his chairand stood facing his audience.”

Joe and Dick raised the cover of the box, and lifted from it before Virginia’s shining eyes a new Western saddle. It was made from russet leather with trappings complete, and could not be surpassed in design and workmanship. On its brass-topped saddle-horn were engraved the letters “V. H.”; the same monogram was embroidered on the four corners of the heavy brown saddle blanket; and the brass of the bridle, suspended from the saddle-horn, was cunningly engraved with the same design.

Virginia gazed at the saddle, at her father, at the men, one by one, at Hannah, who was wiping her eyes; and then suddenly the tears came into her own eyes, and her voice, when she tried to thank them, broke at every word.

“Oh, I—just—can’t—thank—you—” she managed to say, while the men’s rough faces twitched, and tears filled the furrows of Jim’s cheeks, “but I’ll—never forget you, never, because you’re my very best friends!” And she went from one to the other, shaking hands with each, while her father followed her example, for he was quite as touched and delighted as she.

Then, after she had examined all over again every part of the saddle; after Jim had explained how they were to pack and ship it so that it would reach school by the time she arrived; after gingerbread and cider had helped them all to regain composure, Virginia went to her room and returned with a tiny box, and her fountain pen.

“Aunt Lou says that every girl who goes away to school must have calling cards,” she explained, “and I’m going to use mine for the very first time to-night to write my address for each one of you. And every time you look at it, please remember how much I thank you every one, and how much I’m missing you.”

So when the men went back to the bunk-house, after an hour they would always remember, each carried in the pocket of his flannel shirt a calling-card, given by a “lady” to a “gentleman.”

“Oh, daddy,” cried Virginia, as the last faint creak of Jim’s stick died away on the road to the bunk-house. “Oh, daddy, why did they ever do it for me? And I’ve never done a thing for them, except perhaps reading to Jim!”

Her father gathered her in his lap for the last few minutes before the fire.

“Virginia,” he said, “I learned long ago that we often help others most by just being ourselves. When you grow older, perhaps you’ll understand what the men mean.” They sat silently for a while, neither wanting to leave the fire and each other. From the bunk-house came the sound of voices singing some lusty song of the range. The boys apparently were happy, too. “And now, little girl, it’s a long drive to-morrow, and we must be off early. Kiss your father, and run to bed.”

Closely she clung to him, and kissed him again and again; but when the lump in her throat threatened to burst with bigness, she ran to her own room, leaving her father to watch the fire die away and to think of many things. Pinned to her pillow, she found a brown paper parcel, with “From Hannah” written in ungainly characters upon it. Inside were red mittens, knitted by the same rough fingers that had penned the words. The lump in Virginia’s throat swelled bigger. She ran across the hall to the little room where Hannah, muffled in flannel gown and night-cap, lay in bed, and kissed her gratefully.

“Run to bed, dearie,” muttered the old servant. “It’s cold these nights in the mountains.”

But Virginia’s mind was too full of thoughts for sleep. She reviewed her ride with Donald, her talk with her father, all the dear events of the evening with its crowning joy. It seemed hours when she heard her father go to his room, and yet she could not sleep. At last she sat up in bed, bundling the covers about her, for the air was cold, and looked out of her window. At night the mountains seemed nearer still, and more friendly—more protecting, less strange and secretive. She looked at them wondering. Did they really know all things? Were they millions of years old, as she had read? Did they care at all for people who looked at them, and wondered, and wanted to be like them?

“To-night I half believe you do care,” she whispered. “Anyway, I’m not frightened of you at all. And oh, do take care of those I love till I come back again!”

Then she lay down again, and soon was fast asleep.

CHAPTER III—THE JOURNEY EAST

As the great Puget Sound Limited was about to pull out of the little Wyoming way-station to which Virginia and her father had driven in the early morning, a white-haired, soldierly looking gentleman in gray overcoat and traveling cap watched with amused interest a gray-eyed girl in a blue suit, who, leaning over the railing of the observation car, gave hurried and excited requests to her father who stood alone on the station platform.

“Father, dear,” she begged, “don’t work too hard or read too late at night; and don’t forget to take the indigestion tablets. And, father, I think it would be fine if Jim could have my room when it gets cold. The bunk-house is bad for his rheumatism. And I do hope you can keep William away from town. You’ll try hard, won’t you?” The train slowly began to move, but she must say one thing more. “Daddy,” she called, beckoning him nearer, and making a trumpet of her hands; “daddy, you trust me, don’t you, to use my judgment about talking on the journey?”

The man on the platform smiled and nodded. Then, taking his handkerchief from his pocket, he waved to his little daughter, who, waving her own, watched him until the now rapidly moving train quite hid his lonely figure from sight. Then she sighed, tucked her handkerchief in her coat pocket, and sat down beside the old gentleman, who was apparently still amused and interested, perhaps also touched.

“Well,” he heard her say to herself with a little break in her voice, “it’s all over and it’s just begun.” Then she settled herself back in her chair, while her neighbor wondered at this somewhat puzzling remark.

“How can it be all over and at the same time just begun, my dear?” he ventured to ask, his kind blue eyes studying her face.

Virginia looked at him. They two were quite alone on the platform. The old gentleman, having heard her last request of her father, concluded that she was using her judgment and deciding whether or not she had best talk to him. His conclusion was quite right. “He certainly is oldish, and very kind looking,” Virginia was thinking. “I guess it wouldn’t be familiar.”

“Why, you see, sir,” she answered, having in her own mind satisfied herself and her father, and allowing herself to forget all about Aunt Lou, “it’s all over because I’ve said good-by to father, and it’s just begun—that is, the making of me is just begun—because I’m on my way East to school.”

“So going East to school is going to be the making of you, is it?”

“That’s what Aunt Lou says; and, besides, ‘a very broadening experience.’”

“I see; and who is Aunt Lou?”

“She’s my mother’s sister from Vermont. You see, my mother lived in Vermont when she was a girl, and went to St. Helen’s, too; but when she got older, she came to Wyoming to teach school and married my father. My mother is dead, sir,” she finished softly.

His eyes grew kinder than ever. “I’m sorry for that,” he said softly, too.

She thanked him. She had never seen a more kindly face. Certainly even Aunt Lou could plainly see he was a gentleman. Secretly she hoped he was going all the way East.

The train all at once seemed to be slowly stopping. There was no station near. She went to the railing to look ahead, and the gentleman followed her. Apparently the engine had struck something, for a dark object was visible some yards distant by the track. They drew near it slowly, and as they passed, now again gathering speed, Virginia’s quick eyes saw that it was a dead steer, and that on its shoulder was branded a horseshoe with a “C” in the center.

“My!” she cried excitedly, half to herself and half to her companion in the gray coat. “That’s a Cunningham steer, strayed from the range. Even one steer will make old Mr. Cunningham cross for a week. He’ll say there’s rustlers around Elk Creek.” She laughed.

“How did you know it belonged to Cunningham? Who is he, and what’s a rustler?”

Virginia laughed again. “You’re like me,” she said frankly. “I ask questions all at once, too. Why, Mr. Cunningham is a ranchman who lives over the hills north of us; and I knew it belonged to him because I saw the brand. He brands his with a horseshoe mark, and a ‘C’ in the center. And a rustler is a horse and cattle thief. There used to be a lot of them, you know, who went about putting their own brands on young cattle and colts. But there aren’t any more now, you see, because the range isn’t open like it used to be. There are too many people now. And, besides, no one would be likely to rustle cattle which are branded already. You see,” she went on, “Mr. Cunningham’s mean, though he’s very rich, and he makes his men round up his cattle ever so many times even when they’re not branding or shipping, so he can tell if a single one is missing. Every one laughs at him, because people in our country think it’s very small to make such a fuss over one steer when you have hundreds.”

“I should think so. And how many cattle have you?”

“Oh, not so many now as we used to have,” she explained, while he listened interested. “You see, sir, the range isn’t so open any more, because people are taking up the land from the government every year; and so there isn’t so much room for the cattle. Besides, we’ve been irrigating the last few years and raising wheat, because by and by almost all the cattle land that’s good for grain will be gone. The boys are rounding up our cattle to-day. I guess we have perhaps a thousand. Does that seem many to you?” she added, because the old gentleman looked go surprised.

Yes, it did seem a good number to him, he told her, since he was accustomed to seeing five or six meek old cows in a New England pasture. Then he asked her more and more about her home and the land about, and, as she told him, she liked him more and more, and wished he were her grandfather. He, in turn, told her that he lived in Boston, but had been to Portland, Oregon, on a visit to his married daughter, and was now returning home. “Then he will go all the way,” thought Virginia gladly. Also, after she had candidly told him that he looked like a soldier, he told her that he had been a Colonel in the Civil War, and ended by telling her that his name was Colonel Carver Standish. At that Virginia felt a longing to take from her bag one of her new cards and present it to him; but it would be silly, she concluded, since he had only told her his name, and so she said quite simply:

“And my name is Virginia Hunter,” which pleased the old Colonel far better than a calling card would have done.

“And now, Miss Virginia,” he said, “if you will pardon me for what looks like curiosity, will you tell me about Jim and William? I couldn’t exactly help overhearing what you said to your father. I hope you’ll excuse me?”

Virginia smiled. She did enjoy being treated like a young lady. “Certainly,” she said. And she told him all about poor old Jim, his wooden leg, the accident that necessitated it, his learning to read, which greatly interested the old Colonel, and his kindness to her ever since she was a little girl. Then, seeing that he really liked to know, she told him of the evening before, and the new saddle which the boys had given her.

“Capital!” cried the Colonel, slapping his knee in his excitement, quite to the amusement of a little boy, who had come out-of-doors and who sat with his mother on the other side of the platform. “Capital! Just what they should have done, too! They must be fine fellows. I’d like to know them.”

“Oh, you would like them!” she told him. “I know you would! I love them all, but Jim the best. And this morning, Colonel Standish” (for if he called her by name she must return the courtesy), “this morning when the other men had all gone to the round-up, Jim harnessed the horses for father to drive me to the station. But he felt so bad to have me go away that he couldn’t bear to bring the horses up to the door, so he tied them and called to father; and when we drove away and I looked back, he was leaning all alone against the bunk-house. And, some way, I think he was crying.”

She looked up at the Colonel, her eyes filled with tears. The Colonel slapped his knee again, and blew his nose vigorously.

“I shouldn’t wonder a bit if that’s what he was doing, Miss Virginia,” he said. “Fine old man! And what about William?” he asked after a few moments.

“Oh, William,” said Virginia. “You’d like William; and I’m sure you wouldn’t call him ‘Bill’ like some do. It makes such a difference to him! If you call him ‘Bill’ most of the time, he’s just Bill, and it’s a lot easier for him to stay around the saloon. But if you say ‘William,’ it makes it easier for him to keep away—he told me so one day. And in his spare time, he loves to take care of flowers, and plant vines and trees.”

The Colonel liked William. Indeed, he liked him so thoroughly that he asked question after question concerning him; and then about Alec and Joe and Dick. It was amazing how the time flew! Another hour passed before either of them imagined it. The country was changing. Already it was becoming more open, less mountainous. Some peaks towered in the distance—blue and hazy and snow-covered.

“We can see those from home,” Virginia told the Colonel. “They’re the highest in all the country round. They’re the last landmark of home I’ll see, I suppose,” she finished wistfully, and was sorry when a bend of the road hid them from sight.

“You love the mountains?” he said, half-questioning.

“Oh, yes,” she cried, “better than anything!” And then they talked of the mountains, and of how different they were at different times, like persons with joys and disappointments and ideals. How on some days they seemed silent and reserved and solemn, and on others sunny and joyous and almost friendly; and how at night one somehow felt better acquainted with them than in the day-time.

“But the foot-hills are always friendly,” Virginia told him. “And they’re really more like people, because you can get acquainted with them more easily. The mountains, after all, seem more like God. Don’t you think so?”

The Colonel did think so, most decidedly, now that he thought at all about it. He admitted to himself that perhaps in his long journeys across the mountains and through the foot-hills on his visits West, he had not thought much about them, especially as related to himself. He wished he had had this gray-eyed girl with him for she breathed the very spirit of the country. It had been rare good fortune for him that by chance he was standing on the platform when she said “Good-by” to her father, else he had missed much. It was dinner time before either of them realized how quickly the morning had passed; and Virginia ran to wash her hands, after the Colonel had raised his cap with a soldierly bow, saying that he hoped to see her again in the afternoon.

He did see her again in the afternoon, for they discovered that their sections were in the same car, in fact, directly opposite; and again the next morning, until by the time they reached Omaha they were old friends. They talked more about the country, which, after leaving the mountains, was new to Virginia’s interested eyes; and then about books; and after that about the war, the old soldier telling a most flattering listener story after story of his experiences.

The conductor, coming through the car with telegrams at Omaha, found them both so interested that he was obliged to call her name twice before her astonished ears rightly understood him.

“Aren’t you Miss Virginia Hunter?” he asked amused.

“Yes, sir,” she managed to say. “But it can’t be for me, is it? I never had a telegram in my life.”

“It’s for you,” he said, more amused than ever, while the Colonel smiled, too, at her surprise, and left the yellow envelope in her lap.

“Whom can it be from?” she asked herself, puzzled. “The spell of having a real telegram is so nice that I almost hate to break it by finding out. But I guess I’d best.”

She tore open the envelope, and drew out the slip inside. When she had read it, she gazed perplexed at the Colonel. She was half-troubled, half-amused, but at length she laughed.

“I’ll read it to you, I think,” she said, “because in a way it’s about you.” The Colonel in his turn looked amazed. “You see,” she went on, “it’s from my Aunt Lou, and she warned me about talking to strangers on the way. I suppose she thought I’d forget, and so she sent this.” She again unfolded the telegram, and read to him:

“Los Angeles, Cal., Sept. 15.

“I hope you are remembering instructions, and

having a pleasant journey.

“Aunt Louise.”

“But I’m sure she would approve of you,” she assured him; “and I’ve talked with almost no one else, except the baby in the end of the car and his mother; and babies certainly would be exempt, don’t you think? No one could help talking to a baby.”

He agreed with her. “Aren’t you going to send her a wire in return?” he asked.

“Why, I never thought of that. Could I? Is there time? What can I tell her?”

“Of course, you could, and there’s plenty of time. Ten minutes yet. I’ll get you a blank, and you can be thinking what you’ll tell her.”

While he was gone, Virginia studied her aunt’s message, and decided upon her own. She was ready when he returned.

“Don’t go away, Colonel Standish, please,” she said, when he would have left her to complete her message. “I never sent a telegram before, and besides I want you to tell me if you think this is all right. I’ve said:

“Delightful journey. No talking except with

baby, mother, and oldish gentleman.”

The Colonel slapped his knee, and laughed. “Capital!” he said. “Capital! You’ve got us all in.” He laughed again, but stopped as he noted her puzzled expression. “Not satisfied, Miss Virginia?”

“Not quite,” she admitted. “You see it doesn’t sound exactly honest. I’ve said, ‘No talking ex-cept—’ Now that sounds as though I’d talked only occasionally with the three of you, and most of the time sat by myself, when really I’ve talked hours with you. I think I’ll change the ‘No talking,’ and say, ‘Have talked with baby, mother, and oldish gentleman.’ I’d feel better about it.” She paused, waiting his approval.

“If I’d feel better about it, Miss Virginia, I’d surely make the change,” he said approvingly. “That queer thing inside of us that tells us how to make ourselves most comfortable, is a pretty safe guide to follow.”

So she rewrote the message, while he waited, and while he went to attend to its dispatch, wondered how Aunt Lou would feel when she received it.

At Chicago, Miss Cobb, a friend of Aunt Louise, met her and took her across the city to the station from which she was to take the Eastern train; and though Virginia had said “Good-by” to the Colonel until they should again meet two hours later, it so happened that he was in the very bus which took them with others across the city. Virginia introduced him to Miss Cobb, and under her breath, while the Colonel was looking out of the window, asked if Aunt Lou could possibly object to her talking with such an evident gentleman. Miss Cobb, who, perhaps, fortunately for herself, was not quite so particular as Virginia’s aunt, felt very sure there could not be the slightest objection, of which she was more than ever convinced after a half hour’s talk with the gentleman in question.

So Virginia with a clear conscience continued her journey from Chicago on, and enjoyed the Colonel more than ever. As they went through the Berkshires on the last day of the journey, she told him more about Donald, his experience at school, and how he couldn’t seem to feel at home.

“I wish my grandson knew that fellow,” said the old gentleman. “Just what he needs. Too much fol-de-rol in bringing up boys now-a-days, Miss Virginia. The world’s made too easy for them, altogether too easy!” And he slapped his knee vigorously to emphasize his remark. “By the way, what’s the name of that school of yours?”

“St. Helen’s at Hillcrest, sir.”

“Exactly. Just what I thought you told me the first day I saw you. If I’m not mistaken, that’s in the neighborhood of the very school that grandson of mine attends. And if you’ll allow me, Miss Virginia, some day when I’m there I’m going to bring that boy of mine over to see you. You’d do him good; and I want him to see a girl who thinks of something besides furbelows.”

Virginia smiled, pleased at the thought of seeing the Colonel again.

“I’d love to have you come to see me,” she said, “and bring him, too, if he’d like to come. What is his name, and how old is he?”

“Why, he has my name, the third one of the family, Carver Standish, and he’s just turned seventeen. He has two more years at school, and then he goes up to Williams where his father and I were educated. He’s a good lad, Miss Virginia, if they don’t spoil him with too much attention and too much society. I tell you these boys of to-day get too much attention and too few hard knocks. I want this fellow to be a man. He’s the only grandson I’ve got.”

So they talked while the train bore them nearer and nearer Springfield where Virginia’s grandmother and aunt were to meet her. At last there were but a few minutes left, and she ran to wash and brush her hair, so that she might carry out the first of Aunt Lou’s instructions: “Be sure you are tidy when you meet your grandmother.”

She was very “tidy,” at least so the Colonel thought, when, with freshly brushed suit and hat, new gloves and little silk umbrella, she stood with beating heart and wide-open, half-frightened eyes on the platform of the slowly moving train. The Colonel was behind her with her bag.

“You see,” she told him, a little tremulously, “I’m so anxious for them to approve of me.”

“Well, if they don’t—” he ejaculated almost angry, and perhaps it was just as well that the train stopped that moment.

Virginia’s eyes were searching the faces about her for those who might be her grandmother and aunt; and, at the same time, farther up the platform, the eyes of a stately, white-haired lady in black and of a fresh-faced younger woman in blue were searching for a certain little girl whom they had not seen for years.

“There she is, mother,” cried the younger woman at last, quickening her steps, “there in the blue suit. She walks with her head high just as Mary did.”

Tears came into the eyes of the white-haired lady. “But there’s a gentleman with her, Nan. Who can he be?”

“Oh, probably just some one she’s met. If she’s like her mother, she’d be sure to meet some one.”

She hurried forward, and so sure was she that the girl in the blue suit was Virginia, that she put both arms around her, and kissed her at once without saying a word.

“Oh, Aunt Nan,” breathed Virginia, her heart beating less fast. She knew that moment that she should love Aunt Nan. But her heart beat fast again, as Aunt Nan drew her forward to meet her grandmother, who was drawing near more slowly.

“And this is Virginia,” said that lady, extending her perfectly gloved hand, and kissing Virginia’s cheek. “I am glad to see you, my dear. Mary’s little girl!” she murmured to herself, and at that tears came again to her eyes.

Virginia liked her for the tears, but could somehow find nothing to say in response to her grandmother’s greeting. She stood embarrassed; and then all at once she remembered the Colonel. He stood, hat in hand, with her bag—a soldierly, dignified figure, who must impress her grandmother.

“I—I beg your pardon, grandmother,” she stammered. “This is my friend, Colonel Standish, who has been kind to me on the way.”

Her grandmother acknowledged the introduction, her Aunt Nan also. The Colonel shook hands with Virginia, and reiterated his intention to call upon her at school. “With your permission, my dear madam,” he added, by his cultured manner quite convincing Mrs. Webster that he was a gentleman. Then he hurried aboard his train, and left a gray-eyed girl with a heart beating tumultuously inside a blue suit to go on a waiting northbound train toward Vermont. As his train pulled out from the station, the Colonel completed his sentence.

“If they don’t approve of that little girl,” he said to himself, with an emphatic slap upon his knee; “if they don’t approve of her, then they’re-they’re hopeless, as that grandson of mine says, and I shouldn’t care to make their acquaintance further.”

Meanwhile Virginia was fixedly gazing out of the window, as the train, leaving Springfield, carried them northward. She tried to be interested in the strange, new country about her; but some way, instead of the crimson maples and yellow goldenrod, there would come before her eyes a cottonwood bordered creek, a gap between brown foothills, a stretch of rolling prairie land, black and green and gold, and in the distance the hazy, snow-covered summits of far away mountains. But with the picture came again Donald’s words—words that made her swallow the lump in her throat, and smile at her grandmother and Aunt Nan.

“No, the East isn’t like this—not a bit, and maybe you won’t like it; but you’re too plucky to be homesick, Virginia!”

CHAPTER IV—VERMONT AS VIRGINIA SAW IT

It was not until the afternoon of the second day in Vermont that Virginia wrote her father. The evening before she had said “Good-night” as early as she thought polite to her grandmother, Aunt Nan, and the minister who had come to call, and, upon being asked, willingly stayed to tea, and had gone up-stairs to the room which had been her mother’s to write her father about everything. But somehow the words would not come, though she sat for an hour at the quaint little mahogany desk and tried to write; and it all ended by her going to bed, holding close her mother’s old copy of “Scottish Chiefs,” which Aunt Nan had placed in her room, and forgetting in sleep the thoughts that would come in spite of her.

But now that the hardest first night was over, and the first forenoon, which she had spent walking with Aunt Nan, had gone, she must write him all about it. She sat down again at the quaint little desk, over which hung the picture of a girl of sixteen with clear, frank eyes, and began:

“Webster, Vermont, Sept. 18, 19—

“Father dearest:

“Do you remember how the poor queen in the fairy tale dreaded to meet the dwarf because she knew she didn’t know his name? Well, that was just like me when the train was near Springfield. If it hadn’t been for the dear Colonel, whom I told you about in my train letter, I don’t believe I could ever have been as calm as I truly outwardly was; because, daddy, I felt as though I didn’t know grandmother at all, any more than the poor queen, and I did dread seeing her. But I was tidy, and my heart didn’t beat on the outside, for which blessings I could well be thankful. The Colonel carried my bag for me, and that made it easier, for, of course, family pride forbade my allowing him to see that my grandmother and I weren’t really well acquainted.

“And, after all, it wasn’t so bad. Aunt Nan is dear, father, like mother, I know, and I love her already. She is not so proper as grandmother. I kissed Aunt Nan, and grandmother kissed me. That explains the way they made me feel, Grandmother is handsome, isn’t she? And stately, like an old portrait. But when you talk with her you feel as though there were some one else inside your skin.

“I do hope they don’t disapprove of me now, and will by and by care for me for mother’s sake and yours. Aunt Nan likes me now, I am sure, and grandmother, I am reasonably sure, doesn’t dislike me, though I think she considers me somewhat puzzling. She looks at me sometimes like we used to look at the tame foxes, when we weren’t sure what they were going to do next.

“Do you remember how the country looked coming from Springfield to Webster, when you came with mother? It was in September when you came, you said, and I remembered it. The creeks, which they call ‘brooks’ here, are lovely, though not so swift as ours, and the oaks and maples are a wonderful color in among the fir trees. I know you remember the goldenrod and asters, because mother always told about them. Didn’t you miss the quaking-asps, father? I did the first thing, and asked grandmother about them,—if none grew in Vermont. She didn’t know what I was talking about. She had no idea it was a tree, and thought I meant a bug, like that which killed poor Cleopatra. But I missed them, and I think the fall is sadder without them, because they are always so merry. I missed the cottonwoods, too. Aunt Nan said there were a few of those in New England, but they called them Carolina poplars.

“The little villages in among the hills are pretty, aren’t they?—so clean and white—but they don’t seem to care about the rest of the world at all, it seems to me. Webster is like that, too, I think, though it is lovely. If you remember how it looked when you were here, then I don’t need to describe it, for Aunt Nan says it hasn’t changed any. When we reached here, and were driving up towards the house, grandmother asked me how I liked Webster, and I said it was beautiful, but it seemed very small. She couldn’t understand me at all, and said she didn’t see how it could seem small to me when we didn’t live in a town at all in Wyoming. I was afraid I had been impolite, and I was just trying to explain that I meant it seemed shut in because you couldn’t see the country all around like you could at home, when we stopped at the house, and saw a gentleman coming toward us with a black suit and a cane. Grandmother looked at Aunt Nan, and Aunt Nan at grandmother, and they both said at once, ‘Dr. Baxter!’

“‘We must invite him to tea,’ said grandmother. ‘It would never do not to!’

“‘Nonsense!’ said Aunt Nan. ‘I don’t see why.’

“Well, he came up to the carriage just as grandmother finished whispering, ‘Our pastor, Virginia,’ and handed grandmother out, and then Aunt Nan, and lastly me. I tried to be especially polite when grandmother introduced me, remembering how she had warned me that he was the minister; but somehow all I could think of was the parson in the ‘Birds of Killingworth,’ because, when I first saw him coming down the street, he was hitting the goldenrod with his cane, and some way I just know he preaches about the ‘wrath of God,’ too, just like the Killingworth parson. He did stay to tea, though I’m sure Aunt Nan didn’t want him, and I, not being used to ministers, didn’t want him either; but I put on one of my new dresses, as grandmother said, and tried to be an asset and not a liability. But, father, I know grandmother was troubled, and, in a way, displeased, because of the following incident:

“Dr. Baxter is bald and wears eye-glasses on a string, and the end of his nose quivers like a rabbit’s, and he rubs his hands, which are rather plump, together a great deal. Some way, father, you just feel as though he didn’t care away down deep about you at all, but was just curious. I am sorry if I am wrong about him, but I can’t help feeling that way. All through tea he talked about the Christianizing of Korea, and the increased sale of the Bible, and how terrible it was that China wasn’t going to make Christianity the state religion. He didn’t pay much attention to me, and I thought he had forgotten all about me, when all at once he looked at me across the table and said:

“‘And to what church do you belong, Miss Virginia?’

“Poor grandmother looked so uncomfortable that I felt sorry for her, and after I had said, ‘I don’t belong to any, Dr. Baxter,’ she tried to explain about our living on a ‘large farm’ (I don’t believe grandmother thinks ranches are real proper) and not being near a church.

“Aunt Nan tried to change the subject, but Dr. Baxter just wouldn’t have it changed, and after looking at me thoughtfully for a few moments, he said:

“‘I wonder that our Home Mission Board does not send candidates to that needy field. Do you have no traveling preachers, Miss Virginia?’

“Grandmother looked so uneasy that I did try to say just the right thing, father, but I guess I made a mistake, because I told him that we did have traveling preachers sometimes, only we didn’t feel that we needed just the kind of preaching they gave. His nose quivered more than ever, and grandmother tried to explain again only she didn’t know how, and at last he said:

“‘If the Word is not appreciated in Wyoming, it is elsewhere, thank God!’—just as though Wyoming were a wilderness where ‘heathen in their blindness bow down to wood and stone.’ Grandmother looked more mortified than ever, and the silence grew so heavy that you could hear it whirring in your ears. By and by we did leave the table, and then I excused myself to write to you, but I couldn’t seem to write at all, I felt so troubled about mortifying poor grandmother. This morning I thought she would speak of it, but she didn’t, and perhaps, if I make no more slips, she will forget about it. It is very difficult to be a constant credit to one’s family, especially when it requires so much forethought.

“Grandmother feels very bad because she has no son to carry on the family name. When she and Aunt Nan and Aunt Lou die, she says ‘the name will vanish from this town where it has been looked up to for two hundred years.’

“It makes a great difference in Webster how one does things—even more than what one does. This morning, when Aunt Nan and I were going to walk, Aunt Nan said, ‘I think we’ll run in to see Mrs. Dexter, mother. She’ll want to see Virginia.’ And grandmother said, ‘Not in the morning, Nan. It would never do!’ So we have to go in the afternoon. I told Aunt Nan when we were walking that at home we called on our friends any time, and she said she wished she lived in Wyoming! She could ‘belong’ to us, father, but I’m afraid grandmother never could enjoy Jim and William and the others. She is too Websterized.

“Wasn’t it thoughtful of Aunt Nan to put mother’s old ‘Scottish Chiefs’ on my table? It has all her markings in it. Last night—but I won’t tell you, because you will think I am homesick, and I’m not! Please tell Don.

“Do you remember the view of the Green Mountains from the window in mother’s room? I can see them now as I write you. They are beautiful, but so dressed up with trees that they don’t seem so friendly and honest as our little brown foot-hills. Oh, daddy, I do miss the mountains so, and our great big country! Last night when I tried to write you and couldn’t, I stood by the window and watched the moon come up over the hills; and I couldn’t think of anything but a poem that kept running through my head like this:

    To gaze on the mountains with those you love

      Inspires you to do right;

    But the hills of Vermont without those you love

      Are but a sorry sight!

“Aunt Nan is waiting for me down-stairs. I can hear her and grandmother talking together. Oh, I wonder if they do approve of me!

“Father, dear, give my love to Jim and Hannah and Mr. Weeks and Alec and William and Joe and Dick and all the Keiths, and tell them I think of them every day. Give Pedro sugar as often as you remember, won’t you?—and if the lump in the littlest collie’s throat doesn’t go away soon, please kill him, because I don’t want him to suffer.

“I do love you so much, father dearest, that if I tell you any more about it, I’ll quite break my promise to myself.

“Virginia.

“P. S. Just think, daddy, Aunt Nan says you must come East in June to get me and visit them. She said also when we were walking that you were a fine-looking man; and I told her that you were not only that, but that you were fine all the way through, and that every one in Sheridan County knew it!—V. W. H.”

And while Virginia wrote her letter to her father in the room which had been her mother’s, downstairs, in the library, her grandmother and Aunt Nan talked together.

“I must admit, Nan, she isn’t nearly so wild as I expected after having been brought up in that wilderness.”

“Wild, mother? She’s a dear, that’s what she is! And Wyoming isn’t a wilderness. You must remember the country has grown.”

“I know, but it can hardly afford the advantages of New England. I mean in a cultural way, my dear.”

Aunt Nan actually sniffed. “Maybe not, mother. I’m sick of culture! I like something more genuine. And as to good manners, I’m sure Virginia has them.”

“Yes,” her mother assented. “And I must say I’m surprised after what Louise wrote as to the ranch life. Mary’s husband has done well by Virginia, I must grant that.”

“Lou is too particular for any use, mother. I’ve always said so. And as for Virginia’s father, you’ve never half appreciated him!”

Virginia’s grandmother felt rebuked—perhaps, a little justly.

“Of course,” she said, a little deprecatingly, “there are crudities. Now as to that matter last evening with Dr. Baxter. I fear he was rather—”

“Shocked!” finished Aunt Nan. “And I’m glad he was! Virginia only told the truth. If he knew more about Wyoming geography and less about Korean idolatry, he’d appear to better advantage! He needs shocking!”

“My dear Nan!” interposed her mother.

“Well, he does, mother, and I hope he’s so shocked that he won’t come to tea again for a month!”

And with that Aunt Nan, leaving her mother somewhat disturbed in mind, went to call her niece.

CHAPTER V—THE “BROADENING EXPERIENCE” BEGINS

“I’m afraid it will look as though we didn’t show proper interest, Nan. Besides, I never did like the idea of a child starting out alone for boarding-school. None of my children ever did. But what can we do?” It was Virginia’s grandmother who spoke.

“Now, mother dear, don’t worry about ‘proper interest.’ I’ve written Miss King all about it, so that she understands. And since I was careless enough to sprain my ankle, and you unfortunate enough to have to entertain the Mission Circle, we can’t do anything but let Virginia go alone.” This from Aunt Nan, who lay on the couch with a bandaged ankle, the result of a bad wrench the day before.

Virginia spoke next. “Don’t worry at all, please, grandmother. It isn’t as though I hadn’t traveled way from Wyoming. I’ll be very careful—truly, I will—and try to do everything just as you would wish.”

“Oh, I don’t suppose it’s absolutely necessary that one of us go. It’s just that I have always considered it very essential that a young and inexperienced girl should be accompanied by some member of her family when she enters upon such an important step. But circumstances certainly dictate the course of events, and it looks as though you must go alone, Virginia. Miss King remembers your mother, and will welcome you for her sake; and she assures me you are to room with a wholly desirable girl of excellent family. My dear, you will try, I know, to be a credit to the Websters!”

Away back in Virginia’s eyes gleamed a flash of light, but she answered quietly:

“Certainly, grandmother, and to the Hunters, too, because father is just as anxious that I should do well as you and Aunt Nan and Aunt Lou. Please don’t forget how anxious he is,” she finished, a little wistfully.

Aunt Nan gave her hand a friendly little squeeze. “Of course, he’s the most interested of us all,” she said. “We mustn’t be selfish, mother. They’ll send the carriage to meet you, Virginia, and Miss King will understand about everything. It will seem strange at first, but you’ll soon get acquainted, and love it, I know you will.”

So it happened that on account of a sprained ankle and the Mission Circle, Virginia again boarded the train after five days in Vermont, and started with a heart filled with dreams and hopes to discover whether school were really as dear and delightful as Peggy Montfort had found it.

Hillcrest was a five hours’ journey from Webster, and to-day Virginia could look at the countrysides which they passed with a less perturbed spirit than that with which she had so unsuccessfully tried to watch them nearly a week before. The visit in Vermont was over, and after all it had not been so hard. She really loved dear, frank, funny Aunt Nan very dearly, and she somehow felt sure that Aunt Nan loved her. As for Grandmother Webster, perhaps she did not love her Wyoming granddaughter just yet; but, Virginia assured herself, remembering her grandmother’s warm kiss at parting, she at least did not entirely disapprove of her. After all, it was hard to have one’s only granddaughter from Wyoming—especially hard when one could not understand that Wyoming was not a wilderness.

But as she reviewed the five days, she could not find any glaring improprieties or mistakes, except perhaps shocking poor Dr. Baxter. But even then, she had only told the truth. After all, manners are quite the same in Wyoming as in Vermont, she thought. To be sure her a’s were hardly broad to suit Grandmother Webster, and her r’s quite too prominent. In Vermont there were no r’s—that is, where they belonged. If used at all, they were hinged in the funniest sort of way to the ends of words. Virginia laughed as she remembered how grandmother had called her “Virginiar” and the maid “Emmar,” but pronounced Webster, which possessed a real r at the end “Websta.” She wondered if the girls at St. Helen’s would all speak like that. If so, they would find her funny, indeed; but she did not mind.

New England was lovely. She did not wonder that her mother had always talked so much of its fir-covered hills, its rocky, sunny pastures, its little white-churched villages nestling in the hollows, its crimson maples, its goldenrod and asters. And this very journey to St. Helen’s, which she was now taking, her own mother years before had taken many, many times in going back and forth to school before and after vacations Quick tears filled her eyes as she remembered. Her mother would be glad if she knew her little daughter was on her way to her mother’s old school. Perhaps she did know after all. And with this thought came a resolve to be an honor and a credit to them all.

At one of the larger stations where the train stopped longer than usual was gathered on the platform a merry group of persons, saying good-by to two girls, who were apparently going to take the train. Perhaps they also were going to St. Helen’s, thought Virginia, and she studied the group as closely as politeness would allow.

“Now, Priscilla, do be careful, and don’t get into any more scrapes this year,” she heard a sweet-voiced, motherly-looking woman say, as she kissed one of the girls good-by.

“Mother dear, I’m going to be the model of the school, wait and see,” the girl cried, laughing. “Dorothy is, too, aren’t you, Dot?”

“Of course, I am, Mrs. Winthrop. Dad’s going to cut down my allowance if I don’t get all A’s. Oh, Mrs. Winthrop, I’ve had such a heavenly time! Thank you so much for everything.”

“You must come again,” said a tall gentleman in white flannels, evidently Priscilla’s father, as he shook hands, while his invitation was echoed heartily by two jolly-looking boys—one of about Donald’s age, though not nearly so nice-looking, Virginia thought, and the other younger. The train gave a warning whistle.

“Priscilla, are you sure you haven’t forgotten something?”

“First time in her life if she hasn’t!”

“Have you your ticket and purse, daughter?”

“And did you put your rubbers in your suitcase?”

“Yes, mother, yes, daddy, I’ve got everything. Come on, Dot. The conductor’s purple with rage at us! Good-by.”

They hurried on board the train, and into the car in which Virginia sat. Then the one they had called Priscilla apparently remembered something, for she flew to the platform. Already the train was moving, but she frantically shouted to her mother:

“Oh, mother, my ‘Thought Book’ is under my pillow! I’d die without it! Send it right away, please, and don’t read a word on pain of death!”

The younger boy on the station platform executed a kind of improvised war-dance as he heard the words, meaning apparently to convey to his troubled sister his intention of reading as soon as possible her recorded thoughts. Priscilla returned to the car and took her seat, directly opposite the interested Virginia.

“If Alden Winthrop reads that ‘Thought Book,’ Dot, I’ll never speak to him again. ’Twould be just like him to make a bee line for my room, and capture it, and then repeat my thoughts for years afterward!”

“That’s just the trouble with keeping a diary. I never do. My cousin would be sure to find it. Besides, half the time I’m ashamed of my thoughts after I write them down.”

Virginia, sitting opposite, could not resist stealing shy and hurried glances at the two girls, because she felt sure that they also were bound for St. Helen’s. She liked them both, she told herself. They were apparently about the same age—probably sixteen or thereabouts. The one who had been so solicitous about the “Thought Book,” and whom they had called Priscilla, had brown eyes and unruly brown hair, which would fall about her face. She was very much tanned, wore a blue suit, and little white felt hat, and looked merry, Virginia thought, though she could hardly be called pretty. The other, whose name evidently was Dorothy, was very pretty. Virginia thought she had never seen a prettier girl. Her complexion was very fair, her eyes a deep, lovely blue, her hair golden and fluffy about her face, her features even, and her teeth perfect. She was dressed in dark green, and to Virginia’s admiring eyes looked just like an apple-blossom. Undeniably, she was lovely; but, as Virginia shyly studied the two faces, she found herself liking Priscilla’s the better. The other some way did not look so contented, so frank, or so merry. Still, Virginia liked Dorothy—Dorothy what—she wondered.

As they continued talking, she became convinced that they were going to St. Helen’s, that they had been there a year already, and that Dorothy had been visiting Priscilla for a month before school opened. She longed to speak to them, but, remembering what Donald had said about Easterners not being so sociable with strangers, she checked the impulse, not knowing how they would regard it, and not wishing to intrude. Still, she could not resist listening to the conversation, which she could hardly have helped hearing, had she wished not to do so.

“Dear me! I wish now we hadn’t been so silly, Dorothy, and done all those crazy things. Then we could have roomed together this year.”

“I know. Maybe ’twas foolish, but I’ll never forget them. Especially the time when we dropped the pumpkin pie before Miss Green’s door.” They both laughed. “And, anyway, Priscilla, with Greenie in The Hermitage, if we’d been saints, we couldn’t have roomed together. She thinks we’re both heathen, and I worse than you; and just because she does think I’m so bad, I feel like being just as bad as I can be. I wish Miss Wallace would have the cottage alone this year. She’s such a darling! I just adore her! I’d scrub floors for her! My dear, she wrote me the most divine letter this summer! It absolutely thrilled me, and I was good for a week afterward!”

Virginia looked out of the window amused. What queer ways of saying things! She had never heard a letter called “divine” before; nor had she realized that scrubbing floors and adoring some one were harmonious occupations. She listened again. Priscilla was talking this time.

“I adore Miss Wallace, too,” she said. “She makes you want to be fine just by never talking about it. I wish I could like poor Miss Green—she seems so sort of left out some way—but she just goes at you the wrong way. Mother and daddy think she must be splendid because she enforces rules, and they say we’re prejudiced; but I don’t think they understand. It isn’t enforcing the rules; it’s the way she has of doing it.”

Dorothy acquiesced. “I suppose we’ll have to make the best of her if she’s there. Miss Wallace’s being there, too, will make it better. I’m wondering whom I’ll draw for a room-mate. Do you know who’s yours?”

“No, Miss King wrote mother and said she’d selected a wholly desirable one for me. I do hope she doesn’t chew gum, or want fish-nets up, or like to borrow.”

Virginia recalled Miss King’s words to her grandmother—“a wholly desirable girl ”—but then that was just a form of expression. There was no reason to believe, much as she would like to hope, that Priscilla was to be her room-mate. At all events, if such a thing by any possibility should come to pass, she was glad she did not chew gum. As to fish-nets, she had never heard of one in a room, and as for borrowing, she had never had any one in her life from whom she might borrow.

At that moment she saw the girls looking at her. Perhaps they had suspected that she, too, was a St. Helen’s girl. They whispered one to the other and exchanged glances, while Virginia, a little embarrassed, looked out of the window. She only hoped they liked her half as much as she liked them. They began to talk again.

“My dear,” this from the extravagant Dorothy, “when you see my Navajo rug, your eyes will leave your head for a week! It’s positively heavenly! Daddy had it sent from California. Whoever my room-mate is, she ought to be grateful for having that on the floor. It makes up for me.”

“I won’t hope for a Navajo just so long as I get some one I’ll like.”