Woodford had put on her finest spring array for the return of her children, and Blue Bonnet thought the quaint old village had never looked half so lovely as they drove up the quiet street through the avenue of elms. Denham, with Solomon at his heels, was waiting at the station. Solomon wagged his joy at seeing his mistress, and Blue Bonnet was no less enthusiastic in her greeting.

"I see that you take good care of him, Denham," she said, nodding toward the dog affectionately. "And Chula? Is she up from pasture waiting for me?"

"She is, Miss Blue Bonnet," the old coachman answered cheerfully. "An' right skittish, too. I don't think she's had a saddle to her back since you last rode her. I meant to give her a run yesterday, but Darrell's boy was late getting her in. Think you'd better let me try her out, Miss, before you mount."

"Thank you, Denham, but Chula is as safe as a lamb. I'll take her out this afternoon and give her a taste of what's before her for the next week. I'll put her through her paces. Don't worry!"

But the afternoon was so full of a number of things that Chula stood in her stall indulging in an extra supply of oats which Blue Bonnet had insisted upon in honor of her home-coming.

"She's had poor food all winter, Denham," she said. "Just hay and stuff. Feed her up a bit, and I'll give her a run the first thing in the morning."

But in the morning Alec arrived with Knight Judson, and in the rush of things Chula was again neglected.

It was the third morning after Blue Bonnet's arrival that Chula was at last brought round to the side door. There was to be a riding party; a scamper through the woods with lunch in the hills afterward.

"Hold her a minute, please, Denham," Blue Bonnet called from her bedroom window, which overlooked the side driveway. "I'll be down in two seconds."

At that moment Alec and Knight rode up, and Alec, dismounting, threw Chula's bridle over his arm. Chula gave her head a toss and shied away.

"There, girl!" Alec rubbed her nose and spoke kindly. "What's up? Too much high living?"

"That's it exactly, sir," Denham said, touching his hat respectfully. "I wanted Miss Blue Bonnet to let me give her a turn before she mounted, but she thinks she can manage her. She's just feelin' her oats, sir. She'll settle down after the first mile or two."

But Chula did not settle down after the first mile; nor the second.

"Better let me give her a run," Alec insisted, but Blue Bonnet refused.

After the first five miles Chula began to lose the restlessness that had taken possession of her. Some one in the party suggested that the horses be let out a bit, and they were off in a bunch, Chula well in the lead.

"I don't like the way that mare is acting," Alec said to Knight. "Veer round to the left of Blue Bonnet and keep pretty close to her for a while. I'll take the other side."

Knight urged the big grey horse he was riding and caught up with Blue Bonnet; but Chula, taking the grey's speed for a challenge, shot forth in a wild run.

It took a moment or two for the rest of the party to grasp the fact that Chula, gentle, docile Chula, was in earnest; that she was really running away.

There was a shriek from Debby, which did not help matters in the least, and a horrified groan from the rest of the We Are Sevens. Knight Judson, thoroughly alarmed, took up the chase; but his horse, big and clumsy, was no mate for Chula, who was running at breakneck speed.

Alec took in the situation at a glance. He feared to catch up with Blue Bonnet, lest Chula should take Victor's presence as a further invitation to contest; and yet, it seemed the only thing to do. Blue Bonnet was in a fair way to lose control of the animal at any moment. He raced on at top speed. Fortunately they were on a rising piece of ground, and Alec could see that Chula was pretty well winded.

"Hold tight, Blue Bonnet," he called, as he came up behind her. "You're all right! I'm close behind you. Keep up your nerve!"

Whether it was the welcome sound of Alec's voice in such close proximity, or utter exhaustion, Blue Bonnet could scarcely have said, herself; but loosening her feet from the stirrups as if by magic, she swayed forward in the saddle, and in another instant lay an unconscious heap in the road.

Alec was at her side in a moment: lowering her head, rubbing her hands, and calling upon Knight to run to the brook for water.

"She's only fainted, I'm sure," he said in response to Knight's look of distress. "I don't believe she's hurt a bit. The mare was only playing; but, by George, wait till I catch her! I'll teach her how to run away in the future!"

Alec's face was white with anxiety and anger, and his jaw set with determination that boded no good for Chula.

Blue Bonnet stirred presently; opened her eyes. The sight of Alec and Knight bending over her in the road bewildered her. Then she remembered, and a look of horror came into her eyes. She sat up frantically.

"Chula!" she cried, scanning the road eagerly. "Where is she? Alec, catch her! Catch her quickly! If she goes home without me it will frighten Grandmother to death."

Knight was off in a twinkling, coming back in a few minutes leading Chula by her bridle.

"Little devil!" he said, laughing. "She was browsing up there on the hillside as peaceful as a lamb. Weren't you, old girl?"

But Alec, still white with anger, jumped to his feet and snatching Chula's bridle from Knight's hands, struck the mare a stinging blow with his whip across her shoulder.

Blue Bonnet was up and at Chula's side instantly. She wrenched the whip from Alec's hand and her voice quivered with passion.

"How dare you strike my horse, Alec Trent! How dare you!"

Her arms were round Chula's neck instantly; her fingers caressing the ugly mark that was beginning to show deep in the sorrel shoulder.

For a moment Alec gazed at Blue Bonnet, dumb with amazement. Then he took a step toward her apologetically.

"I beg your pardon," he said slowly. "I beg your pardon, Blue Bonnet. Not for striking Chula. She needed what I gave her; but for losing my temper. I'm sorry."

Blue Bonnet, still trying to smooth out the mark on Chula's shoulder, answered not a word. There was an awkward silence for a moment, and then she suggested that the party move on.

"Will you lend me your hand, Knight?" she said. "I don't believe I can mount alone this time."

There was a protest from all the young people.

"Blue Bonnet! You're surely not going to ride Chula again to-day! You can't! You're all unstrung! She may run again; you really must not."

"Your hand, please, Knight," Blue Bonnet insisted calmly.

Alec stepped forward and took Chula's bridle. At his touch the mare shied, almost jerking the reins from his hands.

Blue Bonnet snatched the bridle and turned on Alec.

"Will you leave my horse alone, please?" she said angrily. "You see, she hates your touch!"

It was Kitty who strove to heal the breach.

"Don't be ridiculous, Blue Bonnet! Chula got just what was coming to her. She might have killed you; throwing you like that—"

"She didn't throw me, Kitty Clark! You don't know what you're talking about! Knight, are you going to help me, or not? If you aren't, I can mount from that log over there."

Knight came forward hesitatingly.

"Really," he said, "I think you are very unwise, Blue Bonnet. The mare is excited yet; she might—"

"You don't understand, Knight. There is a reason why I must ride Chula—now, this very minute. I am not at all nervous—see?"

She held out a cool, steady hand and Knight took it for an instant in his own.

"You're game, all right," he answered. "Here goes, then."

He lifted her into the saddle and she took up the reins firmly. For the second time she had conquered an abiding fear.

The remainder of the ride was a sad failure. Blue Bonnet felt it as she tried to entertain Knight, who kept close to her side. Alec rode with Kitty; but his eyes scarcely left Chula, who was behaving quite decently now that her frolic was over.

Kitty tried to interest Alec with stories of her Boston trip; the dinner for the Lambs; the gay theatre party; but all she got for her effort was a mere occasional, "You don't say," or "That was fine, now, wasn't it?"

Finally, in exasperation, Kitty rebelled.

"Forget it, Alec," she said. "That was only one of Blue Bonnet's flashes. She adores Chula, and she knew she was only playing. You did give the horse a bad cut, though. She needed it, nevertheless. I don't see how Blue Bonnet ever escaped breaking her neck, falling like that!"

To all of which Alec made no answer, except to suggest that they ride on and select a place for lunch.

The picnic, which had promised so much, was also a dire failure. In the first place it was a trifle early for a picnic. There was chill in the air, though the sun shone brightly.

Blue Bonnet ate her sandwiches and talked to Knight merrily; but never once did her glance meet Alec's, or her conversation lead in his direction.

As the party reached town and the girls took their respective roads home, Blue Bonnet found herself for the first time alone with Alec. Knight had gone ahead with Kitty and Amanda. Alec drew up beside her and for a moment they rode in silence.

"Were you hurt, Blue Bonnet?" he asked.

"Not in the least, thank you," she replied indifferently.

"I hope you aren't going to be angry. I did exactly what I would have done to Victor, or any other beast that acted that way."

"We'll drop the matter," Blue Bonnet said coolly. "But there's one thing—I hope you won't feel it your duty to tell Aunt Lucinda about what happened and spoil my vacation. It would put a ban on Chula forever more. My falling was my own fault; not hers. I slipped off in preference to—perhaps—being dragged."

All at once the light began to dawn upon Alec. He remembered the fear that had so long obsessed Blue Bonnet; the fear of being dragged.

The horses were walking now, and Alec leaned over and put his hand on the pummel of Chula's saddle; presently it slipped down in a caress on the mare's shoulder.

"I beg your pardon, Chula girl," he said. "I was pretty hard on you, wasn't I? Are you ready to forgive me?"

And whether it was because at that moment Mrs. Clyde's comfortable barn hove in sight, or in response to Alec's pleading, Chula gave a low whinny, and her mistress, looking into Alec's face which was lifted for her approval, smiled.



CHAPTER XVIII

KITTY'S COTILLION

"That was plucky—Blue Bonnet's riding the mare home yesterday," Alec remarked at the breakfast-table next morning.

"What was that?" asked the General.

Alec explained.

"It was plucky," Knight remarked. "She's a true Texan, all right. What got into the mare? Only playing, wasn't she?"

"I suppose she was," Alec answered, deep in thought. "But it was a serious business, just the same. When Blue Bonnet fell I scarcely knew whether I'd pick her up whole. Not having a scratch is marvelous."

"She says she has a guardian angel," Knight said, laughing. "Jove, she must have. Only a kind and interested fate saved her yesterday. Well, what's the program to-day?"

Alec came out of his reverie.

"To-day? Nothing in particular. There's the party at the Clarks' to-night. Blue Bonnet's honor, I believe—and yours."

"I'm at the young ladies' disposal," Knight said.

It was late afternoon when Alec, coming in with Knight from a ride, suggested a call at Mrs. Clyde's.

"This is about the tea hour," he said. "I'm not particularly long on tea, but I must pay my respects to Miss Clyde and her mother."

Tea was in order when the boys were ushered into Mrs. Clyde's comfortable sitting-room. Blue Bonnet was helping herself to a second cup.

"Just in time," she said gaily, bestowing a handshake on Knight, and nodding at Alec.

Alec felt the omission.

"Not wholly forgiven yet," he thought, as he turned his attention to Miss Lucinda. "'Fraid that cut on Chula must be looming large to-day."

That was exactly the trouble. Denham had noticed the mark when the horse had been turned over to him the afternoon before, and, alarmed for Blue Bonnet's safety, remarked about it to Miss Lucinda. The situation had been awkward. Blue Bonnet was forced to explain; which she did with as much credit to Chula as possible.

"Do you mean to say that Chula ran away with you?" Miss Clyde had asked.

"She was only playing, Aunt Lucinda." Blue Bonnet carefully guarded the fact of her fall. "She felt so good after the long winter at pasture. She didn't mean a bit of harm. I'm sure she didn't."

But Aunt Lucinda was far from satisfied, and at her first opportunity questioned Alec.

"Don't you think Chula is a bit wild for Blue Bonnet after being out all winter?" she asked.

Alec glanced at Blue Bonnet in surprise.

"Oh, scarcely wild, Miss Clyde. She was a little frisky yesterday from having been in the stable a few days on extra rations. I think the little run we gave her took away some of her surplus energy. I daresay Blue Bonnet will have to prod her to make her move in a day or two."

"Going to stand for that, Blue Bonnet?" Knight asked. "I can't imagine a Texas girl riding anything that had to be prodded. By the way, Kitty tells me that Sarah has become quite expert in the art of riding: asks at the livery stable for 'a horse with some go in him,' and has tried out the best of them."

"Good for Sarah!" Blue Bonnet exclaimed, grateful to Knight for so tactfully diverting the subject. "That reminds me of the day she first rode Comanche at the ranch. The girls made such fun of her, but she stayed with him gloriously. That was Sarah's first experience with a horse with 'go' in him."

Blue Bonnet laughed at the recollection.

"See you and Carita to-night at Kitty's, I suppose," Alec said as he and Knight were leaving a little later. "May we stop and take you over?"

"Thank you—yes," Blue Bonnet answered, looking more at Knight than at Alec. "I reckon Delia will resign in your favor. She's been my duenna for some time now."

Over at Doctor Clark's great excitement prevailed. Kitty, with the aid of Amanda and Debby, was changing the entire landscape of the Clark domain. Furniture was carted out wholesale. Canvas had been laid in the large double parlors for dancing, and the hall and library reveled in cosy corners and tete-a-tetes. Out on the broad veranda, although the season was yet so young, comfortable nooks braved the chill atmosphere, and Japanese lanterns gave an air of festivity.

Kitty was giving a cotillion, an event of some importance in Woodford. Kitty's two cousins from Medford, Jack and Ferren Allen—Amherst men home for vacation—had come over to help with arrangements and make themselves generally agreeable at the party.

"What am I to do with this, Kitty?" Jack asked, lifting a table. "Amanda says it stays here. Is that right?"

"In other words, I'm not to be depended upon," Amanda said, laughing. "I told him that table was for the favors, and had to stay where it was."

"That's true, Jack," Kitty called from the porch, where she and Ferren were struggling with rugs and Indian blankets. "Amanda's perfectly dependable. That's her one accomplishment—making the truth go as far as possible!"

"See?" Amanda retorted, making a little moue. "Next time you'll take orders direct, and save time, won't you? Isn't it a lark, getting ready for a party? Oh, would you please straighten out these chairs? They have to go all round the room—so! Then perhaps you'd help Debby with the favors. They are in that box by the window. Kitty got the sweetest things in Boston. I do hope some nice man will present me with a pink fan. I'm pining for one for my new gown."

"I shall try to remember," Jack promised humbly. "Pink, did you say?"

At last everything was in place. Kitty gave a parting glance at the rooms. They must have fulfilled every requirement from the satisfied look on her face.

"Boys," she called to her cousins, who were finishing a hasty lunch in the dining-room, "you'll have to hurry. It's a quarter past seven this blessed minute. How long does it take you to get into evening clothes?"

"Not as long as it takes you by an hour," Ferren called back. "We'll go up to dress at eight, and then hang round for you."

"Don't you ever think it! I dress like chain lightning. Come on, Amanda, we'll show them how long it takes us."

Amanda, living near, had brought her clothes over, intending to dress with Kitty and stay all night. The girls scrambled through a half dozen things forgotten at the last minute, and then proceeded to dress with haste. But, sure enough, at a quarter past eight, Ferren, true to his word, emerged immaculate from his bedroom, and commenced beating a tattoo on Kitty's door.

"Go away!" Kitty called. "We're all ready. We're just resting a minute."

But Ferren, laughing scornfully, kept up the noise until the girls appeared.

Kitty opened the door and gave him a push.

"Go away now. You see we are dressed! We only have to put on a few touches; Amanda's flowers and—"

"I know those touches, Kitty. Come along!"

In the front parlor Doctor Clark stood waiting to receive the guests with his daughter. Mrs. Clark, being an invalid, found herself unequal to such occasions.

"Oh, Father, you look—just lovely!" Kitty said, smiling up to him and noting every detail of his correct evening dress. "Only—just a minute; it's your tie! There! Isn't he splendid, Amelia? My, but this is an occasion! I do hope everybody will have a good time. There's Blue Bonnet. I hear her voice. She's early, isn't she? Amanda, take a peek at the favors, will you, and tell Sarah not to get them mixed. I have explained it all to her a dozen times, but when one doesn't dance, one is apt to bungle."

It had fallen to Sarah's lot to preside at the favor table; a treat she was looking forward to with no little pleasure. It was nice to be taking part, even if one couldn't dance.

Blue Bonnet was looking her best in the pink gown purchased for the dinner the week before. She was very attractive as she entered the room between Alec and Knight, whose glances followed her approvingly.

"Some party, Miss Clark!" Alec said, bowing before that young lady in his best military form. "I was just telling Knight that he was in luck to be introduced to society under such favorable circumstances."

"I'm certainly in luck to be here," Knight said. "May I see your program, Kitty?"

"We haven't any programs, Knight. This is to be a cotillion. The girls get a chance to bestow favors. See that table where Sarah is sitting? Come over and I'll explain."

Which she did, a little to Knight's bewilderment.

The rooms began to fill up. On the up-stairs landing violins squeaked in the tuning. Ferren, who was to lead the cotillion with Kitty, chose six couples for the first figure, and the dance began.

Alec and Knight both stood before Blue Bonnet. "I suppose you are going to say 'how happy I'd be with either,' aren't you?" Knight said laughing.

Blue Bonnet paused only a second.

"Since Knight is the guest of honor I think I'd best dance with him," she said.

But Alec, nothing daunted, brought her his first favor.

"You can't resist this vanity box, Blue Bonnet," he said, smiling broadly.

Blue Bonnet accepted the favor, but after a couple of turns through the rooms, she stopped.

"Want to sit it out?" Alec asked.

"If you please—I think I should rather."

They found a seat in one of the cosy corners. Alec strove to be entertaining. Suddenly, in the midst of the conversation, he broke off abruptly:

"I say, Blue Bonnet! You're not vexed still about that Chula affair, are you?"

"No; certainly not."

"You're awfully quiet!"

"I just happen to feel quiet, I reckon."

"Sorry to miss this two-step. We won't have many more dances."

"Oh, there'll be lots of parties."

"Yes, I daresay—but not for me."

"Why?"

"Because—I leave in the morning."

"In the morning?"

"My holiday is over. I'm only here at all through a special dispensation of Providence. I ought to be at school this minute, grinding like the mischief. Our exams begin the last Monday in April, and they're no joke."

In her keen disappointment Blue Bonnet forgot her small grievance.

"Why, that's perfectly outrageous! The very idea, only three days!"

"But they've been such bully days! It's been so pleasant to see Judson again. He'll be here. He's going to stay on for a week with Grandfather."

"And when will you get another holiday?"

"Two years from next June, if I'm lucky."

"How do you mean, lucky?"

"If I pass the examinations and make the Point. If I do, I enter the twelfth of June for two years."

"Why, it's just like having a sentence! Why didn't you stay at the ranch? One can do as one pleases there, at any rate."

A half wistful expression crept into Alec's eyes.

"That's true," he said. "I loved the ranch life, but—you see—Grandfather had chosen the army for me, and when the appointment came, I knew what a disappointment it would be to him if I didn't make a try at it. It's all right though. I like it. There's a fascination about it. Think you don't want to finish this dance?"

Blue Bonnet rose, but just as they moved off the music stopped.

For the next two or three dances Blue Bonnet saw nothing at all of Alec. She looked about the room once or twice for him, but he was nowhere to be seen.

"Where's Alec?" she inquired of Knight when he came up to her for a dance. "He seems to have disappeared."

"I saw him on the veranda talking with Kitty a minute ago," Knight said, peering in that direction. "Don't believe he's dancing much."

Blue Bonnet watched her opportunity and carried her next favor to Alec; but Kitty was ahead of her. The rest of the evening was spoilt for her. She had hurt Alec; and Alec was going away to-morrow—for two years! Two years seemed an eternity.

Some one announced supper, and Blue Bonnet and Knight wended their way toward the dining-room. Kitty came into view at the same moment. Alec and her cousin Ferren were both claiming her company for refreshments.

"Go get Debby, Ferren," Blue Bonnet heard Kitty say. "I'm taking care of Alec to-night. He's going away to-morrow and we sha'n't see him again for ages." Then, spying Blue Bonnet and Carita, she, called:

"Come over here, girls, Alec has heaps to say to you. Did you know he was going away to-morrow, Blue Bonnet? I never was so surprised in my life! I tell him I think it's right horrid of him and such a scarcity of boys in Woodford."

For a few minutes the conversation was lively. Knight took the opportunity to tease Kitty about Sandy, the young Texan who had found her so attractive the summer before.

Blue Bonnet tried to appear interested. She smiled and answered questions in monosyllables. She wondered afterwards if she had smiled in the right place: her thoughts had been miles away from Sandy and Kitty—from her surroundings. She was wondering how she could make Alec understand that she was sorry for having been so disagreeable; that she should miss him terribly during the rest of the vacation. She had turned the matter over in her mind for the twentieth time without coming to any definite conclusion when Alec began saying good-by.

"I'm going to turn Blue Bonnet and Carita over to Knight's care," she heard him saying. "I have to get out early in the morning and there are a few things to be done yet to-night. It's been a great old party, Kitty. If I make the Point you'll have to come down to some of the dances next winter. Good-by. See you all again one of these days, I suppose."

"You'll see us all to-morrow morning at the station," Kitty answered, looking straight at Blue Bonnet, hoping she would acquiesce, but Blue Bonnet in her surprise could scarcely find voice to speak.

It was not until she was in the privacy of her own room that Blue Bonnet confided her disappointment to Carita.

"I've been perfectly horrid to Alec," she confessed. "I've been angry at him ever since he struck Chula yesterday. I don't know why—Chula did act badly. Perhaps it was because I was so horribly upset. I was so frightened—oh, you can't think how frightened! And now he's going away—for two years—and he'll never know how sorry I am."

"Why didn't you tell him?" Carita asked.

"I wanted to, but I couldn't get a chance. He seemed so terribly interested in Kitty. I couldn't get near him—alone."

"Why don't you write him a note, Blue Bonnet? Write and tell him that you were angry, but that you're all over it now."

"A note? I hadn't thought of that. How could I get a note to him? He leaves so early in the morning."

"Write it now and we'll skip out and put it under his front door. We can slip down-stairs—no one will hear us, and—"

"Carita! You don't know what you are talking about. It's twenty minutes after twelve this instant. Don't you ever think you could get out of this house without Aunt Lucinda's knowing it. She sleeps with one eye open. No—that won't do. Can't you think of something else?"

"Yes—" Carita answered after a moment. "You write the note. I always wake early in the morning—I got the habit in Texas and it seems to stay with me. I'll get up and take it over early—very early, and give it to the maid—or—I could send it by Denham, couldn't I? He's always up by six o'clock."

"Of course—the very thing! You're sure you don't mind? You'll be awfully sleepy in the morning."

"I'd love to do it," Carita answered, truthfully. To be of service to Blue Bonnet constituted her greatest happiness. "Hurry up and write it!"

For the next ten minutes Blue Bonnet's pen scratched away busily. There must have been some difficulty in writing the note, for several attempts went the way of the waste basket. Finally it was done. Blue Bonnet read it through three times, then slipped it into an envelope and laid it on the table beside the bed.

"There it is," she said, eying it with misgivings. "I hope it's all right, and I haven't been too awfully humble. I don't suppose he cares a rap, anyway—as long as—"

She stopped abruptly. She was going to say "as long as Kitty Clark was around," but she couldn't bring herself to it.

Carita was up with the larks the next morning and slipping down-stairs quietly, so that she did not even waken Blue Bonnet, found Denham and gave him the note.

"It's for Mr. Alec, Denham," she said, "and it's very, very important. Please take it over immediately and give it to the cook. Tell her to give it to Mr. Alec the first thing when he comes down to breakfast. And, Denham, please impress upon her how important it is. She might mislay it or something."

Denham promised faithfully, and a few hours later at the station Blue Bonnet was rewarded by a cordial handshake from Alec.

"I got the note all right, Blue Bonnet. It was good of you to send it over—makes my going away a lot easier. Hope you have a jolly good vacation. Put Judson through his paces, won't you? Good-by. Send along some of those fine letters of yours and tell me all the news."

He was off, and Blue Bonnet watched the long train vanish into a black speck.

"Come along, Solomon," she said with a faint sigh, after Alec's last salute had been lost to view, "there's no use moping here."

She left the girls at the first corner and turned into a little lane that led to the Widow Patten's cottage. The Widow Patten was a unique figure in the village. Small of stature, cheery of countenance, charitable by nature, she mothered the town. Fate had not been kind to Mrs. Patten, but she cherished no resentment; it had left her a pair of willing hands, and indomitable courage to face emergencies.

"Seems to me if I'd had to endure all that the Widow Patten has, I'd have given up long ago," more than one neighbor said, beholding her sorrows and cares; but the Widow Patten never gave up. "The way will open," was one of her favorite sayings, and nine times out of ten it did. It had opened up opportunely when Miss Clyde asked her to take little Gabriel and his nurse from the city hospital. The pantry had been deplorably bare, and the very substantial check that preceded the invalid's coming had been a godsend.

Blue Bonnet opened the white picket gate and walked up the path bordered with old-fashioned flags that led to Mrs. Patten's front door. She knocked softly.

Mrs. Patten was not long in answering. She flung back the door with a gesture that bespoke hospitality.

"Why, it's Miss Blue Bonnet," she said, smiling a welcome. "Come right in. S'pose you want to see Gabriel. He's out in the orchard with Miss Warren. They're both crazy 'bout the fruit blooms and the sunshine."

She led the way through a spotless kitchen, and Blue Bonnet stopped at the door to catch a glimpse of Gabriel's ecstatic face. The child was propped with soft, comfortable pillows in a wheel chair. It was the first time Blue Bonnet had seen him out of bed, and the sight of his crutches gave her a start.

"So you arrived safely?" she said, shaking hands with Miss Warren and dropping down beside Gabriel.

Gabriel removed his eyes from a robin in the peach-tree long enough to say "good morning" at his nurse's request. Then he spied Solomon.

"A dog!" he cried delightedly, as if wonders were multiplying too rapidly to be true.

Blue Bonnet took Solomon by the collar and pulled him closer to the boy. "Pet him," she said, "he won't hurt you." But at Solomon's friendly approach the child shrank away in terror.

"Gabriel has never known much about dogs," Miss Warren explained. "And just think, Miss Ashe, he's never seen a robin before! That's why he forgot to speak to you; he was entranced."

Entranced he was. The trees in bloom; the soft fragrant air swaying the leaves gently; the singing birds; Mrs. Patten's lazy yellow cat drowsing in the sunshine; the chickens cackling in the tiny barnyard, opened up a panorama before the child's wondering eyes that could scarcely be eclipsed by heaven itself. Only one who has lain for months in a hospital ward with blank walls and a sea of sick faces, could have appreciated the vision.

"'Tain't any better than this, is it—the place where we're goin'?"

"Well—" Blue Bonnet paused a moment before answering. She wondered if anything could be better than Woodford in the spring. She had grown to love it very dearly herself.

"There's the pony," she said at last. "You haven't forgotten about him, have you? And there are great stretches of land to gallop over as soon as you are well enough—and there's Uncle Cliff, and Uncle Joe and Benita. Benita adores little boys. Just wait until you hear some of her stories and taste her cookies."

"Stories 'bout Injuns and soldiers?"

"Yes, some."

Gabriel heaved a sigh of content and his head dropped back on the pillows contentedly.

"Guess it'll suit me all right," he said, "specially the pony. What you s'pose he looks like?"

"I shouldn't wonder if he was a bay—or perhaps brown; and not so very high. Just high enough for a little boy to climb on easily. Were you ever on a pony?"

"Gee—no! Wish I could see him right now!"

"Would you like to see my pony?"

Gabriel's eyes brightened.

"Bet yer!" he said. "Could I get on him?"

"Maybe. I'll see."

"Can you get him now?"

"I reckon I could—yes."

She was back in a short time on Chula; Knight Judson with her on Victor. They hitched the horses round at the back of the little house so that Gabriel might get a good view of them.

"Gee! Oh, I wish—Couldn't I get on one of 'em? Just a minute?"

Miss Warren looked alarmed.

"Not to-day, dear. You aren't nearly strong enough. I couldn't think of letting you."

"Not if I lifted him very carefully and held him, Miss Warren?" Knight asked.

Gabriel's eyes plead with her.

"Knight would be very careful," Blue Bonnet urged.

All three turned and looked at the child. His cheeks had flushed scarlet; his eyes were as brilliant as stars, his little thin arms outstretched toward Chula with the wildest anticipation.

"Just for a minute then, if Mr. Judson will be very careful."

Knight already had the child in his arms and was lifting him with the greatest tenderness. Gabriel sank into the saddle and reached for the lines with a chuckle of delight.

"Git ap!" he said, "git ap!"

Knight patted Chula's shoulder and spoke quietly.

"Careful, old girl. This is a little sick boy you have on your back; no capers to-day."

"Couldn't he just walk round a minute?" Gabriel begged.

Knight looked at Miss Warren.

"If Mr. Judson takes you round once will you get off willingly, Gabriel?"

Gabriel promised with a quick nod.

Around they went once—so carefully; Blue Bonnet leading Chula, and Knight holding the child in the saddle. When they came back to the place where they had started, Gabriel put his arms round Knight's neck and the tired body sank into the strong arms willingly. Knight carried him to the chair and Gabriel snuggled into the pillows exhausted.

"He will be all right presently," Miss Warren promised, noting Blue Bonnet's and Knight's alarm. "He has no reserve strength yet—but it will come; here, in this sunshine."

Miss Warren went into the house for a glass of milk for Gabriel, and Blue Bonnet, dropping down beside him, rubbed his colorless little hands. For a moment the eyelids fluttered weakly; then they opened slowly and the eyes smiled.

"It was fine!" he said, almost in a whisper. "Fine! Say, bring him again to-morrow, will you?"

Blue Bonnet promised, and as she mounted Chula a few minutes later, a weak voice called:

"To-morrow! Don't forget—you promised!"



CHAPTER XIX

A SURPRISE PARTY

The We Are Sevens, meeting for the first time in several months for the transaction of business, had selected Mrs. Clyde's orchard as the best possible place to hold council.

"You can't sit under fruit-trees in bloom every day in the year," Debby had insisted. "I'm for that bench under the peach-tree, myself."

The orchard was alluring. A delicious fragrance filled the air. The peach-trees were crowded with bloom, and the pear-trees threatened every moment to outrival their neighbors in gorgeous blossom. Out in the lawn crocuses lifted their heads; daffodils and hyacinths breathed forth their sweetness, and in the elms, birds twittered and sang of spring as they built their nests.

Sarah had brought her sewing, which she pursued diligently. Kitty had a book to read to the girls if they ever stopped talking long enough to listen; and Amanda swayed back and forth in the hammock lazily. Knight Judson, strolling by, thought it a very attractive group, and hoped the girls would see fit to invite him in.

Blue Bonnet, glancing down the road, spied him, and with a smile beckoned to him.

"Sit down," she said, making room for him on the bench beside her. "This is a club meeting, but we're almost through. Love to have you stay to lunch, if you can stand so many girls all at once. I'm going to see if Katie will give it to us out here. We can use that rustic table over there."

"Lovely!" the girls cried in a breath. "Make Knight carry out the chairs."

"Knight's awfully obliging, isn't he?" Kitty Clark said from her cushion, as she watched his long limbs disappear in the doorway. "And so terribly good looking! How do you suppose he ever got such adorable manners on a Texas range? I noticed them the first time I ever met him. He's really polished, I should say."

"It's a good thing Blue Bonnet didn't hear you say that," Amanda said, "and—why, Kitty—don't you see Carita? You ought to know that Texas people are the most courteous in the world after last summer. I think you owe Carita an apology."

Kitty hastened to make amends.

"Don't bother," Carita said generously. "I know how you feel about it. One doesn't have much society where we live in Texas; but it doesn't matter—if one is born a gentleman."

Blue Bonnet came out of the house with a tea-cloth, followed by Knight and Delia with the chairs.

"There's gingerbread!" Debby announced, sniffing. "My, doesn't it smell good!"

"Yes, and little hot biscuits with orange marmalade," Blue Bonnet added. "Cold ham and hot chocolate, too. Katie's an old dear, isn't she?"

It was a merry party, and Knight seemed quite at home, even if he was the only man in sight. He admitted that he had never been so popular in his life, and was enjoying the novelty.

"Girls," Amanda said, when the meal was nearly finished. "I have something to propose. You needn't go away, Knight. Maybe you can help us. Blue Bonnet doesn't know anything about it—but—we're going to have a party, and it's to be for Mr. Ashe."

"For Uncle Cliff!" Blue Bonnet said, amazed. "What kind of a party?"

"That's to be decided," Amanda continued. "I'm in favor of having it to-morrow night, if we can get ready. It's to be a surprise party—that is, Mr. Ashe isn't to know a thing about it. He's been so perfectly angelic to all of us that we thought it would be nice to show him our appreciation if we could. Do you think he'd like it, Blue Bonnet? That is, if we could get all our parents to come?"

"I think he'd adore it. Where are you going to have it?"

"We haven't decided yet. Where do you think would be the nicest place? You can come to our house—"

"Why not have it here?" Blue Bonnet interrupted. "I know Grandmother wouldn't mind. In fact, I think she'd love it. I'll go ask her."

She was off before the girls could remonstrate and back again with the welcome news that Aunt Lucinda and Grandmother thought it was the proper place to have it.

"All right," the girls agreed, "only—there's one thing we insist upon, Blue Bonnet, we furnish the refreshments. We're going to make them. It won't be hard, dividing it between us."

"May I turn the ice-cream freezer?" Knight inquired. "I'm quite expert at it."

"You certainly may," Kitty replied. "I engage you right now, and you may report at my house any time before noon to-morrow."

"And when Kitty's through with you, you can come over to our house and help stir cakes. I'm down for angel food, and I loathe beating up the eggs," Amanda said.

Knight promised solemnly.

"What am I going to furnish?" Blue Bonnet inquired. "Is there any other way you shine in the culinary line, Knight?"

"You furnish the house and the guest of honor! Isn't that enough for one person, I should like to know?" Kitty said. "Seems to me you ought to be satisfied. If I could bring out an Uncle Cliff I should consider that I had done all the community could ask of me."

"That's right, Kitty Kat. Not many people can produce an Uncle Cliff. But as an especial favor might I contribute candy? I should like to have some claim to Knight's society to-morrow. If he's not utterly worn out with you and Amanda he could help me boil sugar."

"Candy's my specialty," Knight declared. "I could come over to-night and we'll make up a lot. I'll show you a Spanish pinoche that's great."

"Thank you, I know that pinoche—it's a Texas product; but you may come over just the same."

The arrangements were soon completed. Blue Bonnet was to waylay Mr. Ashe and not let him escape next day until the party was over.

"That will be easy," she remarked. "You couldn't drive Uncle Cliff away until my vacation is over. He'll be on hand, don't worry." But great was her alarm next morning when, coming down to breakfast she found Mr. Ashe's bag, packed and ready for traveling, in the front hall.

"Where's Uncle Cliff?" she said, rushing into the dining-room greatly excited.

"Here, Honey. Why, what's the matter? You look as if something dreadful were about to happen."

"What's your bag doing in the hall, Uncle Cliff?"

"Business, Honey, business. I have to run up to Boston for a day or two."

"To-day? Oh, Uncle Cliff, not to-day! You can't—possibly. We need you here. We've just got to have you. You said you would stay with me two whole weeks. How can you leave me a single minute when we've been separated all these months?"

"But I'll be back to-morrow, Honey."

"Yes—but to-morrow isn't to-day! I specially need you to-day."

"Very well then, I'll go to-night. What did you want to do to-day?"

"Ever so many things. There's the visit to Gabriel; and the ride out to the farm; and—oh, heaps of things. And to-night—if you'll just stay over to-night, Uncle Cliff, I'll try to spare you to-morrow. Really, I will. Please."

Her arms were about his neck; her head against his cheek.

"I'm sorry, Blue Bonnet, but I must go this time. I'll be back in a day or two. Why, here, here, Honey! What's this?"

Two big, bright tears had splashed down upon his cheeks, and he raised his eyes to behold a very doleful Blue Bonnet.

"Nothing—only—I'm so frightfully disappointed. Uncle Cliff, I need you to-night. I want you!"

"I didn't suppose it was as serious as all that, Blue Bonnet. Dry those tears. I'll stay, of course."

That evening when the guests had all gathered, and Uncle Cliff had been informed as to the significance of the occasion, Blue Bonnet whispered in his ear:

"Wouldn't it have been perfectly dreadful if you had gone away this morning, with all these kind people waiting to do you honor? Why, the We Are Sevens would never have got over it."

"Neither should I, Honey," Mr. Ashe said. "I feel quite like a debutante. This is the first time a party ever was given in my honor. I assure you I am deeply indebted to the We Are Sevens."

"It's a 'get acquainted' affair, Mr. Ashe," Kitty said, coming up behind him and insisting upon his meeting everybody at once. "This is my father, Doctor Clark—think you've met before; and this is Amanda's mother: she's dying to thank you for all the lovely things you've done for us. Aren't you, Mrs. Parker?"

Mrs. Parker, a timid little woman, put out her hand and tried to express her appreciation, but the words were slow in coming. Mr. Ashe saw her difficulty, and in a moment had put her at ease by assuring her that the pleasure of knowing the We Are Sevens had more than compensated for what little he had done.

"But it hasn't been a little, Mr. Ashe," Mrs. Parker insisted. "It has been a very great deal. The Texas trip was wonderful. Amanda will never forget it—never! She talks about it every day, and her descriptions of the Blue Bonnet ranch are so vivid that I almost feel as if I had seen it."

Blue Bonnet ranch opened up a score of possibilities, and Mr. Ashe and Mrs. Parker were soon chatting like old friends.

"I don't wonder that the girls are enthusiastic about Mr. Ashe," she said to her husband later in the evening. "I had a perfectly delightful visit with him. He's as plain as can be! Nobody would dream he had so much money."

Nor was Mrs. Parker the only one who found Mr. Ashe delightful. Mr. Blake and his wife; Debby's parents; Doctor Clark, all enjoyed talking with the man who had on several occasions played the fairy godfather to their children.

It was a most informal gathering. The guests chatted in groups or found places at card tables, which had been prepared for those who preferred a rubber of whist. The dining-room was very attractive with its wealth of fruit blossoms. Mrs. Parker, sitting at one end of the table, poured coffee, while Debby's mother at the other served chocolate. An atmosphere of hospitality and kindliness prevailed. It was Knight who at an opportune time proposed a toast to the guest of honor, and Mr. Ashe responded in a fitting manner. Altogether the evening was pronounced a great success.

"Don't you think it would be lovely to end the party with a Virginia reel?" Kitty suggested to Blue Bonnet, who instantly favored the idea. The older guests protested that a Virginia reel was a part of youth, and not of middle age; but the young people insisted, and two lines were drawn up on either side of the parlor for the dance, while Blue Bonnet furnished the music. Kitty led with Mr. Ashe. He bowed with old-fashioned courtesy to the little butterfly partner, who proceeded to lead him a merry chase down the middle and back again; hurrying him through the steps in true twentieth-century fashion.

"Wasn't it a fine party, Uncle Cliff?" Blue Bonnet inquired after the last guest had gone, and she sat down breathless in her favorite chair to talk things over.

"Splendid, Honey! I'm very grateful to the We Are Sevens."

"Oh, you needn't be. They adored doing it. They admire you terribly, Uncle Cliff, terribly!"

Mr. Ashe smiled—a little tender smile—as his eyes rested on Blue Bonnet's happy face.

"Society has never been much in my line, Honey; but I've enjoyed to-night more than I can tell you. It was very pleasant to be so nicely entertained. I hardly realize what a lonely life I lead until I get in the midst of so much merriment. It does one good to let down the bars and loosen up the reins occasionally. I've almost made up my mind to turn the ranch over to Uncle Joe next winter and take a house in Boston. Would you like that, Blue Bonnet? Or, if you are still in school, I might manage to exist in a hotel until you finish. I know that you can't desert Grandmother for the ranch again."

Mrs. Clyde cast a grateful glance in Mr. Ashe's direction.

"I feel it is a great deal to ask," she said, "but—it would be very hard to give Blue Bonnet up—now."

Blue Bonnet was out of her chair instantly and on her uncle's knee.

"Uncle Cliff!" she gasped, "do you really truly mean it? A home in Boston?"

"I really truly mean it, Honey. Life's too short for these long separations."

Round his neck, in a close embrace, went Blue Bonnet's arms, and her face glowed with joy.

"But we're not going to give up the ranch altogether, Uncle Cliff? We couldn't, you know!"

"No, not altogether, Honey. I reckon the summers will find us there pretty regularly; and there's Gabriel now, remember. We can't desert the little fellow when he needs us so."

"We wouldn't desert the Blue Bonnet ranch anyway—under any circumstances. We'll just be commuters, and sort of vibrate between our old home and the new—then we'll all be happy."



CHAPTER XX

THE JUNIOR SPREAD

Blue Bonnet, after her week at Woodford, found it difficult to accustom herself to the strict discipline, the regular hours, the stated duties that awaited her at school.

"I feel as if I'd been sailing in an airship and had just got back to earth," she said to Annabel Jackson who was diligently pursuing a French lesson. "How can you dig in that way, Annabel, after all the exciting times you had at home? I can't! I'd like to drop this old geometry into the Red Sea."

"I've got to dig," Annabel replied complacently. "It isn't such an easy thing to graduate from Miss North's as some people think. I've earned every inch of the little sheepskin I'll carry home next June, I can tell you—if I'm lucky enough to get it."

Blue Bonnet stifled a yawn.

"Oh, you'll get it, Annabel. You're a shark at lessons. What are you going to do next year?"

Annabel looked out of the window dreamily.

"I don't know yet. Mother has given me the choice between a year's travel and a college course. Father wants me to come home and renew my acquaintance with the family. I think—perhaps—I'll take his advice. This is the fourth year I've been away. A long time, isn't it?"

"Indeed it is! Will you go into society? Have a coming-out party and all that?"

"I hardly think so. In the South we don't come out; we grow out! I can't remember when I went to my first party; along with my dolls, I reckon."

"I suppose that's why you are always so at ease in company. You aren't the least bit self conscious."

Annabel closed her book and stealing over to Blue Bonnet put an arm about her lovingly.

"Flatterer!" she said.

"No such thing. I never flatter. I admire you awfully! You know I do."

"Thank you, Blue Bonnet. I believe you mean it. You're the most truthful person I know. Now! There's a compliment for you."

Arm in arm the girls left the study hall where they had lingered over their books after class had been dismissed. This friendship, which had promised so much in the beginning, grew steadily. Annabel loved the sincere, upright Western girl; and Blue Bonnet had found all the sweet fine qualities that abounded in Annabel's nature. There are moments, living as intimately as boarding-school girls live, when the mask that hides selfishness, hypocrisy and petty jealousy, slips away, revealing the true nature. To Blue Bonnet's somewhat critical eye, Annabel had measured up under all circumstances; and Annabel had found Blue Bonnet as fair and loyal, as honest and just, as was possible in this world where human frailties so often tip the scale in the balance.

At the top of the stairs the girls paused.

"Are you busy for the next half hour, Blue Bonnet?" Annabel asked.

"No, not very. Why?"

"I thought maybe you'd run over some accompaniments for me. Miss North has insisted upon my singing Sunday night when she has that little tea for the illustrious Alfred Noyes, who is going to read some of his poems to us."

"Of course. I'd love to."

Annabel had a splendid voice; one that might have given her fame had she chosen to cultivate it for a profession. It was a deep rich mezzo-soprano, and under Mrs. White's training she had acquired good enunciation, poise and taste.

Blue Bonnet opened the music and ran her fingers lightly over the keys. She had a soft, velvety touch that made her accompaniments a delight. She was in great demand among the girls who sang, and she specially loved to play for Annabel.

"Annabel has something—I don't know what—" she once said to Mrs. White; and Mrs. White had finished the sentence for her.

"Temperament, my dear; a gift of the gods! Annabel is naturally emotional. It is her Southern heritage. When she sings she feels; that is what you recognize and can't explain."

Blue Bonnet was strongly akin to Annabel in the qualities that made for success in music and a strong affinity strengthened the friendship. They were alike—and yet vastly different. Annabel was emotional without being impulsive; her emotions were well concealed, veiled from the public eye, while Blue Bonnet's rose and fell like a tide; completely submerging her at times—often embarrassing her. Blue Bonnet was sunny and optimistic; Annabel had a little pessimistic streak in her that was often mistaken for contrariness, and she lacked the spontaneity that was Blue Bonnet's chief charm. Blue Bonnet could laugh and cry in a breath. When Annabel wept there was a deluge; it took days to get back to the old light-heartedness.

"Let's have a game of tennis," Blue Bonnet suggested when they had finished practising. "I've got to exercise. If I keep on gaining weight I'll be able to wear Wee's clothes without the slightest difficulty."

Annabel, who inclined to physical laziness, scorned exercise always.

"Oh, Blue Bonnet, you know I loathe it! Get Patty—she's so expert it makes it worth while to play. I'm no match for you."

Blue Bonnet glanced at Annabel's tiny hands and feet, and laughed.

"You weren't made for athletics, Annabel. You're put up wrong—architecturally."

"Praise be!"

At the foot of the stairs the girls separated. Blue Bonnet was off for her game of tennis and Annabel for a walk in the Park.

"See you later," Blue Bonnet called. "If you love me awfully you might make me a cup of tea when I get in. I'll be ravenous! Take a look in my shirtwaist box. I think you'll find some crackers and ginger snaps in the right-hand corner. Good-by!"

Annabel promised, and an hour later when Blue Bonnet returned, flushed and radiant after a stiff game with Patty, she found the kettle boiling and a general air of domesticity reigning in her friend's comfortable quarters. Annabel nodded from the depths of a chair and went on with instructions to Ruth, who was changing pictures on the wall.

"Cleaning?" Blue Bonnet asked, throwing down her racket and dropping in a heap on the couch. "Whew! I gave Patty a run to-day. What's the matter with the Princess Louise?"

"Ruth had her between that Madonna and the Princeton chap and it got on my nerves," Annabel complained. "The frames screamed at each other, anyway. I can't stand gold and ebony and oak in a medley. A little lower, Ruth. You know it must be on a level with your eyes. That's better! She'll be happier there and so shall I. I'm terribly fussy. I feel about pictures as I do about books. They have a right to an environment. I couldn't any more stand Shakespeare up beside a best seller than I could fly. How did your game come out?"

Blue Bonnet's eyes danced.

"I beat Patty all hollow—six love!"

"Six love! Really? Why, that's splendid! Keep on and you'll make a record."

"I expect to."

Blue Bonnet drank her tea hastily and began making apologies.

"Sorry to have to run," she said, gathering up her belongings, "but I've an important engagement."

"Junior spread committee, I suppose," Annabel ventured, but Blue Bonnet was already out of the door and on her way to Wee Watts' room.

Wee was cross. Blue Bonnet scented trouble in the atmosphere instantly.

"We've waited this meeting for you twenty minutes, Blue Bonnet, and it's very important. We've decided on a play and you have the leading part."

"I—a leading part? How ridiculous! I never acted in my life."

"Then it's time you began. You don't know what you've missed. You play Oonah, an Irish girl who comes under the spell of the fairies. It's a perfectly sweet part—you'll love it! There are a lot of good parts, and we're wild to begin rehearsals. Isn't it a shame that Angela is a Senior? There's a wonderful part that she could do—a young poet called Aillel, who makes a great sacrifice."

"Wouldn't Sue do?"

"Oh, not at all! It takes a very stunning, tall person—"

"Thanks awfully for the compliment!" came from Sue's quarter.

"Sue! You know I didn't mean anything. It takes a rather masculine person. I think Helen Renwick, perhaps—"

"Much obliged, Wee. I adore that type, you know." This from Helen, who prided herself on her femininity.

Wee threw down the book impatiently.

"You'd better choose another class president," she said. "I'm ready to resign. If any of you think my job's fun, you're welcome to try it!"

Blue Bonnet strove to heal the breach.

"Nobody's angry, Wee—stop it! There couldn't any one take your place. You're doing the best you can for all of us—we know that. Sue and Helen were only joking."

"Sue hasn't anything to grumble about," Wee insisted. "She has a perfectly dear comedy part: a deaf old lady who's always hearing things wrong. I think it's great."

Sue from her corner grinned, and whispered something to Helen; but she wafted a kiss in Wee's direction and Wee brightened.

"Now we're all agreed, are we, that this play is what we want to present?" the president said, rapping for order. "Shall we vote on it?"

A hearty affirmative settled the matter.

"Very well. The duty of making it the best ever given in the school rests with the cast. I am at your service at all times. We shall now adjourn to meet to-morrow afternoon at five o'clock and continue the arrangements."

The next three weeks were the busiest that Blue Bonnet had known since her entrance to the school. Lessons grew in length and importance. There were endless themes to write in English; mathematics became more and more enigmatical; music more difficult. In addition to this were rehearsals for the play.

"I feel as if I were being driven," Blue Bonnet said one day to Sue Hemphill, disconsolately. "Would you mind hearing me say my lines, Sue? I think I almost have them. I'll begin at my second entrance. I'm sure I know up to there perfectly. I don't know what ever made me take this part. I'm sure to forget at a critical moment."

But whatever Blue Bonnet's doubts may have been, the rest of the cast had no fears for their star. For them she shone brilliantly, and promised, so Wee declared,—and Wee's judgment was never questioned,—to be the "hit" of the evening.

The days leading up to the performance were strenuous indeed. All the Juniors had been pressed into service. They scurried through halls; darted in and out of rooms laden with draperies, gowns and furniture, mum as sphinxes, spry as crickets.

The day of the Junior spread dawned at last. A wonderful day the first week in May. The gymnasium had been transformed into a bower of beauty. Pine-trees—huge banks of them—concealed the walls, giving an idea of a forest with marvelous effect. Wondrous fountains, constructed in a day, bubbled and sang; flowers bloomed in profusion; and the long table with its festive decorations, sparkling glass and silver, bespoke a welcome to all beholders.

But it was in the dressing-rooms, behind the scenes and in the wings, that the greatest excitement prevailed. The smell of powder and cold cream filled the air. Sue Hemphill, completely covered with a gingham apron from head to foot, was in her element "making up."

"Don't wiggle so, Blue Bonnet," she commanded, as that young person squirmed under the rigorous treatment she was receiving. "I'll have you looking like a Chinaman in a minute if you don't hold still. I've got to take that eyebrow off—it slants too much. There—that's better! Isn't it, Wee? Wait a minute."

She stood at a distance and contemplated Blue Bonnet thoughtfully.

"You have to study your subjects," she said finally, "to get good results. You're not red enough yet, Blue Bonnet. You can stand a lot of color."

Blue Bonnet protested.

"It isn't necessary that I should look like a house afire, is it? I'm not going to have another bit, Sue, and you needn't insist. Uncle Cliff would have a fit if he could see me; and Aunt Lucinda! mercy, she'd think I was disgraced forever. Ugh! I think I look a fright!"

She held the mirror up to her face and frowned into it impatiently.

Sue explained.

"But you've got to do it, Blue Bonnet. Why, you'd look ghastly behind the footlights without any color. Come now—please. Wet your lips and put them out—so! There, that's fine. Wee, turn up the lights on the stage and take a look at Blue Bonnet. Go to the back of the room. See if you think she's made up too much."

"Perfectly lovely!" Wee called a moment later. "You're just b-e-a-utiful! Your best friends will never know you." Which very doubtful compliment went unnoticed in the general rush and excitement.

"Now, do be careful," Sue cautioned as Blue Bonnet gave her seat to Helen Renwick, who stood patiently waiting, cold creamed to the proper consistency. "And don't, under any circumstances, use your handkerchief. You'll look like a painted sunset at close range if you do. Grease paint's terribly smeary. Please be careful, won't you?"

Blue Bonnet passed out into the wings where Wee was giving instructions right and left.

"Oh, Wee," she said, "I'm scared to death! I believe I'm threatened with stage fright. Do you know how it comes on? Feel my hands."

She laid an icy lump in Wee's warm palm tremblingly.

"Absurd!" Wee said. "Did you think you caught it—like measles or chicken-pox?"

"I think it's caught me, Wee. I feel so sort of choky—and queer."

"You'll get over it. Don't worry. You look too sweet for words. Take a peek at the stage. It's a dream."

It was a pretty setting. Along the light green walls were white curtained windows in whose boxes grew bright, red roses, and swinging from the dimly lighted ceiling was the green and yellow shamrock presented by a former class. The stage represented a simple room in an Irish peasant's cottage, with its brick fireplace and high cupboards. Blue Bonnet was exclaiming over its loveliness when a voice at the centre entrance interrupted her.

"Wee!" it called excitedly. "You're wanted in Clare Peters' dressing-room instantly. They've sent her the wrong wig. It should be grey, and its blond and curly—imagine!—Clare's frantic."

Wee and Blue Bonnet both hastened to the dressing-room. Clare Peters, a somewhat spoiled, flighty girl, accustomed to having her way in most things, stood before the mirror in tears.

"I can't do a thing with it," she said. "I told that stupid man at the costumer's that it had to be grey—I—"

"Go for Sue Hemphill," Wee commanded, and Blue Bonnet fled in haste.

With extraordinary skill Sue fitted the offending wig to Clare's head; gave the curls a twist; treated them to a liberal dose of talcum powder and left Clare happy and satisfied.

"My, but she's a wonder!" commented the leader of the fairies, who had watched the operation in amazement. "Sue certainly is a whiz!"

In another moment the cast had been called together for final instructions. When all were gathered Wee laid down the law. The fairies were not to talk in the wings. All were to keep an eye on the prompter, and Blue Bonnet was especially informed that if the wind apparatus got on a rampage, as it did at the dress rehearsal, and drowned what she was saying at her first entrance, she was to raise her voice and compete with the elements, if need be.

Then there was a rush for the closed doors of the gymnasium, behind which the Juniors sang their song of welcome to the waiting Seniors; and the Seniors responded in fitting style.

As the doors were opened, and the Seniors beheld for the first time the fruits of the Juniors' long endeavors there were exclamations of surprise and delight; and after respects had been paid to the receiving line which included, besides the Junior officers, Miss North and Professor Howe, seats were hastily drawn to the front of the room for the best possible view of the stage; the curtain rolled up, and the play was on!

Perhaps no one in the cast felt the fear that possessed Blue Bonnet as she watched the curtain go up and realized that in a few moments she must face the audience beyond. Her heart beat like a trip hammer; her teeth chattered as if with chill, and Wee Watts, alarmed for her star,—the real shining light of the play,—rubbed the cold hands in an agony of apprehension and spoke comforting words.



"Blue Bonnet—you mustn't go to pieces like this—it's dreadful! Try to calm yourself and think of your lines. You'll be all right in a minute—just as soon as you're on the stage. I know you're going to do well. This awful nervousness is a part of the game—it's the artistic temperament."

And so it proved. Blue Bonnet had scarcely spoken her first line before fear fled to the winds. Her own personality fell from her like a mantle. She was Oonah, the bewitching little Irish maiden, on her way from Dublin to make her home with her grandmother in the country. In her hand she held the "twig of thorn," which, having been plucked on the first day of spring, had thrown her under the spell of the fairies. Around her shoulders she wore the peasant's cape with its quaint, becoming hood, and as she threw it off there was a smothered exclamation from the audience, for the vision was one of startling loveliness. Her hair was caught loosely and hung in many ringlets; her eyes were large and luminous with the excitement of the moment, and her pretty brogue—slaved over for weeks—captivated all listeners.

Blue Bonnet, quite unaware of her triumph, was overwhelmed at the end of the performance to hear her name called uproariously from the audience and fled to the far end of the wings, from which she was rescued unceremoniously by two insistent fairies, who brought her to the footlights to acknowledge the tribute of friends and admirers.

But it was after the play, when the teachers had left the room, and the chairs had been drawn around the table that the real fun of the evening began. It was then that the presidents of the two classes made speeches that were masterpieces of diplomatic art, and the Seniors contributed their share of entertainment with rare stunts. The eccentricities of teachers were taken off in a way that convulsed the entire gathering; the Junior class song was sung for the first time, and midnight crept on without any one dreaming of its approach until faithful John, the janitor, announced it from the door exactly on the stroke of twelve.

With sighs and regrets that anything so altogether heavenly as a "spread" should have an end, the girls moved out of the old gymnasium sorrowfully, realizing that one of their happiest evenings had passed into history.



CHAPTER XXI

THE LAMBS' FROLIC

School-days cannot last forever. The fact was borne in on Annabel Jackson as she sat in her room one afternoon shortly before Commencement. It wasn't going to be such an easy thing to tear up root and leave Miss North's after four years as she had imagined. How was she ever going to get along without the girls? There was Sue—dear old, impulsive, warm-hearted Sue, companion in so many escapades. And Ruth, and Wee Watts—Blue Bonnet, too! The parting was going to be especially hard with Blue Bonnet. She would in all probability disappear on the Texas ranch, and except for an occasional Christmas greeting or birthday card, pass out of her life altogether.

There were the teachers also,—Mrs. White and Professor Howe and Madam de Cartier—and, yes—even Miss North, austere and dignified and unapproachable as she was, would be missed out of the little world; a world she had grown to love very dearly, despite its limitations, its frequent vexations.

"Mercy! you look as if you'd lost your last friend, Annabel," Ruth Biddle commented from her seat by the window, where she was doing her best to stop a runner in a silk stocking.

"I have, I'm afraid—or will," Annabel answered dolefully. "Do you realize that in just fifteen days we shall be saying good-by to these old walls, forever—you and I? I didn't think it was going to be so hard, Ruth. Doesn't it break you all up when you think of it? Do you relish the idea of other girls having this room next year—hanging their things in our closets; planning feasts and frolics behind barred doors while we pass on to the ranks of 'young women?' The idea doesn't appeal to me as much as I thought it was going to."

Ruth bit off her thread and regarded the room a moment in silence.

"Wonder where they'll keep their provisions," she said, eyes toward the box couch which had secluded many a staple article. "Do you suppose they'll find the refrigerator, and know enough to make black curtains for the transoms?"

A gleam shot from Annabel's roguish eyes to Ruth's.

"Let's put them on," she said. "Write a letter and will them our secrets. We can hide it in the refrigerator."

The refrigerator—a loose brick discovered one day just under the window on the outside wall—had proved a boon to Annabel and Ruth. By the least bit of digging from the inside a passage had been made, large enough to accommodate a bottle of milk, a pint of ice cream or any other delicacy that required cold storage. It had been necessary to cut the wall paper, and the plastering, of course,—a daring thing to do, but the girls had felt no great qualm of conscience.

An elaborate calendar covered the aperture. It had been observed many times by visitors that the calendar hung low, but Annabel was always quick to remark that there was no other place, the room, being full to overflowing with pictures, pennants, etc. A truth which could not be gainsaid.

"Splendid!" Ruth cried, with more enthusiasm than she was wont to show, and got out paper and pencil immediately.

"Better get ink, Ruth. Who ever heard of a last will and testament being written in pencil? Here! let me do it."

For a minute Annabel scratched away busily, and this is what Ruth read over her shoulder:

"TO THE NEXT OCCUPANTS OF THIS ROOM

"GREETINGS!

"To you, whoever you may be (we hope the best ever), Ruth Biddle of Scranton, Pennsylvania, and Annabel Jackson of Nashville, Tennessee, former occupants, do bequeath our good will, our confidence, our social standing (which is thrown in gratis along with the most expensive room in the school), and do entrust to your everlasting protection such of our possessions as you may find useful and necessary. The black cloths, which you will find in this secret hiding-place, fit the transoms over the door and in the bathroom. The candles you will find convenient for midnight feasts and orgies; the refrigerator indispensable for cold storage; the box couch excellent for provisions, such as Nabiscos, crackers and cookies. To you also we do bequeath the residue of our estate: the wicker tea-table; the picture of the Queen Louise; the china cat on the mantel-piece, which has proved an invaluable mascot. This together with our best wishes, congratulations, and the hope that you will continue to dispense hospitality and radiate good cheer and comfort from these portals. "Signed: "Witnessed by:"

"You don't mean to say you're going to give your tea-table to utter strangers, do you, Annabel?" Ruth asked in surprise.

"I don't mean to pay storage or freight on it. Certainly I'm going to leave it."

"And the Queen Louise? I thought you adored her!"

"I did once, but she makes me so nervous, eternally coming down those stairs, gazing off into the distance as if she were treading on air. I'm getting terribly tired of her."

"And the cat? You remember the day you bought that, Annabel? You were about the most homesick person in Boston. You said it looked like your own 'Lady Jane Grey' at home, and you cuddled it half the night. I don't see how you can part with it."

"Oh, it goes with the room," Annabel answered indifferently. "You know yourself it's kept away mice. We've never had one, and look at Wee Watts' room, and the sky parlor—"

A knock interrupted further history.

Blue Bonnet put her head inside.

"Girls!" she said excitedly, "we're going to get our three days' cut, and oh, guess what's happened! Patty Paine's mother's here—we just left her down in the reception-room, and she's invited us all—the Lambs—down to her summer home in Maine at a place called Sargentville. They have a cottage there, and she's going down and will take us, and Miss North says we can go."

Annabel pulled Blue Bonnet into the room and looked at her skeptically.

"Really, Blue Bonnet? Do you mean it?"

"Of course I mean it. And Annabel—isn't it too splendid?—every one of the Lambs has brought her average up to eighty, so we can all go! We are to leave Friday and get back early Monday morning. Patty's perfectly wild about it, and her mother's a dear."

Blue Bonnet hurried off to bear the good tidings, but the news had preceded her. In Patty's room a group of girls chatted excitedly.

"Oh, Blue Bonnet, have you heard the news? We're to go—"

"I should say I have," Blue Bonnet interrupted. "I came to tell you."

"Well, Angela got ahead of you. Come in. Patty will be up in a minute. She and her mother are making arrangements with Miss North. Isn't it too utterly splendid?"

"And Fairview Cottage is the most ideal spot in the world," Angela put in dreamily. "I'm so glad that it is full moon time. There's a place around Sargentville called Caterpillar Hill, with the most fascinating road winding up to it. I loved it so that I wrote an ode to it last year when I visited Patty."

"Will the family all be there?" Sue inquired.

"I fancy not," Angela said. Being Patty's room-mate, she was well up on the Paine affairs. "Mrs. Paine is going down to open the cottage for the summer. The servants all went yesterday. Patty says she's going to try to get the boys to come up over Sunday, but she isn't at all sure they can—they're at Yale, you know."

"The boys" were Patty's two brothers, who were studying law at Yale.

"Isn't Sargentville the place where Ben Billings' family have a summer home?" Sue inquired quite casually; but the remark brought a laugh. Ben Billings, despite his very ordinary name, and Sue's particular aversion to it, had sailed into her ken with meteor-like brilliancy. She had changed her opinion of him since the visit to Harvard, and was the object of considerable teasing. Such rhymes as the following had found their way to her desk and room often:

"Her home is in the Middle West; But what's the difference, pray, With Harvard, dear old Harvard, Scarce five miles away?"

"Yes, of course they have," Angela answered. "Ben was there last summer. He was awfully attentive to me. We went rowing together no end of times. Their home is only a stone's throw from Fairview. You must be awfully nice to Mrs. Paine, Sue; maybe she'll ask you to remain on—over into the summer."

Angela thoroughly enjoyed seeing the color mount Sue's cheeks, as Sue adroitly changed the subject.

The girls found Sargentville all that Angela's highly colored imagination had pictured it. Miss North permitted the girls to leave Boston on Thursday night, so, arriving at Sargentville early Friday morning, they had three full days at their disposal. And days filled to the brim they were!

The first great treat was Fairview itself. Just why it was called a cottage, baffled Blue Bonnet's Western conception of that title.

"Why, it's almost a mansion!" she whispered to Annabel, with whom she occupied a charming room. "One almost gets lost in it. I didn't know that Patty was so rich."

It spoke well for Patty—indeed for Miss North's school—that none of the girls knew. Patty was simplicity itself, as was also her mother.

The first afternoon was taken up with a riding party. Fairview stables held the best saddlers in the country, and the girls had great fun choosing mounts. All the horses were reputed to be safe and gentle, and the party started off in high spirits. The country roads proved delightful, winding through woods and abandoned farms. Haunted houses abounded; and Patty had many a tale to tell of the forlorn places where wells had fallen in, windows were smashed, and a general air of desolation prevailed.

The second day, Angela's favorite spot, Caterpillar Hill, was chosen for a moonlight picnic. The girls started early to catch the sunset from the summit which was, according to tradition, well worth the climb. Slowly, majestically, the great red ball dropped behind the Camden hills, leaving a trail of splendor behind; and in the little village of Belfast lights glimmered and flickered.

"Seems almost as if they were saying, 'Come down! Come down!' as they wink up at us," Blue Bonnet said, watching them, quite fascinated. "Look, Angela!"

But Angela heard not. The islands with the many light-houses, like great protecting eyes, held no charm. Nature was inspiring her, as always with the poet's vision. Lost to her companions she dreamed on in utter oblivion.

"Will some one kindly bring Angela back to earth," Sue said. "Ask her if she'd exchange that view for the sight of a ham sandwich. I'm starving."

Sunday, too, was a day of peaceful, beautiful experiences. It was just as well that Patty could not prevail upon her brothers to leave Yale for the week-end, as she had hoped, for the girls' time together was growing so short that they begrudged every moment that separated them. Boys, naturally, were a diversion.

"We're going to sail through the islands to-day," Patty announced at breakfast. "At noon we'll stop somewhere and cook lunch. There are lots of lovely places. We might have a little service, too. I think Miss North would like it. Angela can read the prayers and the lesson for the day and we'll sing our favorite hymns. And then I thought it would be nice, if we have time, to have a sort of farewell meeting of the Lambs—we won't be together much longer, you know."

Something rose in Patty's throat that prevented further speech, and her eyes filled suspiciously.

There was an awed silence for a moment, and then it was Blue Bonnet who spoke:

"I don't believe any of us could stand a last meeting, Patty. I hoped we wouldn't have any."

"But there's business," Sue insisted.

"Our vows and pledges for time to come," Wee supplemented.

"I move we write them and have them recorded, by our secretary, on the books," Annabel suggested. "I'm with Blue Bonnet. It's going to wrench my very soul to give up the Lambs. Oh, girls, I love you all so much, and maybe I'll never see any of you again after this year."

At this there was a general breakdown. Handkerchiefs played a more important part at the morning meal than the delicious bacon and fresh rolls that graced the table.

It was Wee Watts as usual who saved the day.

"Mercy on us, Annabel," she said with scorn, though the twitching of her lips belied her bravado, "any one would think we were all going to pass away, or go to live in a foreign country. I'm not. Indeed I have plans for visiting Nashville in the near future—to show the natives what a real Yankee looks like."

That night seven happy girls reviewed the day with pleasure. The sail through the islands had been a joy—the dinner a delight; the service a benediction that would long linger in the minds of all present. It had been such fun to cook the meal—fry the bacon on the end of a forked twig over the glowing camp fire; to tramp through the purple fields of rhodora, gather the low pink mounds of sheep laurel; to quaff great breaths of the fragrant sea air.

There had been just a suggestion of a Lambs' meeting, too. The song of the Lambs had been sung with much enthusiasm and feeling, and many injunctions passed on to the Junior part of the assemblage for use during the next year. There was a wild enthusiastic cheer for Sargentville; an equally ecstatic one for Mrs. Paine and Fairview, and then the little company pulled for shore to pack their several belongings and make ready for the boat which left at sunrise the next morning.

The days which preceded Commencement were happy ones for Blue Bonnet. While she shared in a measure Annabel's depression at parting from friends, her association with the school had not been of such duration that it made her absolutely unhappy to leave it. The bright, sunny days had brought many pleasures. Among them were visits with her grandmother, who, now that the weather was seasonable, made frequent trips to Boston. There was a possibility of a separation from Blue Bonnet in the future, and Mrs. Clyde wished to be near her as much as possible.

"You have quite decided to go back to the ranch with Uncle Cliff for the summer, dear?" she asked Blue Bonnet one afternoon. It was Friday, and Blue Bonnet was spending the week-end with her family; Uncle Cliff was still in Boston. Aunt Lucinda had taken out her sewing and there was a very homey atmosphere—even in the garish hotel room—conducive to a confidential chat.

Blue Bonnet did not answer for a minute.

"I think so, Grandmother," she said presently. "It seems almost as if I should. Uncle Cliff needs me—and there's Gabriel, too! I should like to get him started in his new quarters. Do you know what Uncle Cliff is doing? Having a sleeping-porch built for him. We're going to bring him up outdoors. Doctor Clark says we won't know him in a year. The change has been perfectly wonderful in the little time he has been in Woodford. I had a letter from Miss Warren yesterday. She says he's crazy over the little Shetland pony Uncle Cliff bought for him—that he has a short ride every morning. Knight Judson has been spending a week-end with the General and he's been awfully kind to Gabriel. The pony? Oh, we were a little afraid to trust Gabriel to a Texas mustang yet, so Uncle Cliff found this little fellow. We're going to ship him ahead of our departure, so as to be at the ranch ready for Gabriel."

"Gabriel is a very lucky boy," Mrs. Clyde said. "A very lucky boy."

"Oh, I don't know, Grandmother. He is—of course. But we're lucky, too—Uncle Cliff and I. You can't think what company he'll be to us. It's going to keep us from growing selfish and self-centred to have him. You know I've always wanted an orphan asylum all my own. This is just a starter."

Grandmother smiled into the enthusiastic young face.

"Do you ever look ahead into the future, Blue Bonnet, and plan your life a little?" Aunt Lucinda asked. "It seems to me that you are old enough now. Your mother was but a year older when she married."

"And you want me to think about—that—too?" Blue Bonnet asked mischievously.

"No; not yet. You are younger for your years than your mother was, and times have changed; but there is a forward movement all over the world to-day—onward and upward. I should like to feel that with the many blessings meted out to you, you could find your place in the world's work—become an avenue for good. I wish that you might have a definite purpose and work to an end. That is the only way to accomplish anything."

Blue Bonnet's face was shining as she answered:

"That's just exactly the way I feel, Aunt Lucinda. For that reason I should like to come back here to school next year and be near Miss North. She has promised to let me do settlement work—to have a day each month at Dennison House—and Uncle Cliff has already put aside some money for my use. Gabriel isn't the only forlorn child in the world. Perhaps in the years to come he and I may be able to relieve others in distress—help make the world a little easier for those less fortunate than ourselves. That's what I want to do. That's what I will do!"

For a moment Miss Clyde's face softened into something very like tenderness. She would have considered it extremely bad form to have shown how much Blue Bonnet's words touched her, or to have revealed the pride she felt; but Grandmother, leaning forward, pressed a kiss on the sweet face upturned to her own.

"That's my dear girl," she said, "my own dear Blue Bonnet! It is exactly what your mother would have wished—would have done, with your opportunity."

At the school the days flew along at an astonishing pace. Commencement—that event long looked forward to—was now in sight. Excitement was in the air. Rooms began to have a deserted appearance as one after another of the little things that had adorned the walls were packed or stored.

"Commencement is a good deal like a funeral, isn't it?" Blue Bonnet said to Joy Cross, who, true to prediction, had taken Fraulein's place in the German department, and with satisfaction.

"It isn't as cheerful as it might be," Joy answered, checking off an examination paper. "It is hard for the girls who aren't coming back. I hear that Annabel is positively sick over it. I had no idea she was so fond of the school."

"Oh, it isn't altogether the school—it's the girls. Annabel is so loyal and she gives so much of herself in her friendships."

Joy folded up her papers and put away some books. Then she came over to Blue Bonnet and slipped her hand in hers shyly.

"There's something I want very much to say to you, Blue Bonnet," she began. "I hardly know where to commence. It's this—principally: I want to thank you for the position that has been offered me in this school next year."