"Bright youth and snow-crowned age,Strong men and maidens meek:Raise high your free, exulting song!God's wondrous praises speak!"With all the angel choirs,With all the saints of earth,Pour out the strains of joy and bliss,True rapture, noblest mirth!"
The stirring verses, sung with a will by every one, seemed to soar to the very tree-tops, making the branches sway with the rhythm and spirit of the hymn.
Blue Bonnet heaved a sigh of regret as they rose to leave the grove. "It's so sweet,—I wish it could last all day."
"I don't remember ever having heard you make a remark like that about church before," remarked Kitty.
"I don't care much for anything that's held indoors," Blue Bonnet confessed. "And I don't like preachers who make their voices sound like the long-stop on an organ. Now that last hymn we sang makes me fairly bubble inside."
"Don't let Sarah hear you say that. She seems to think one ought to draw a long face on the Sabbath,—a sort of 'world-without-end' expression, you know. I believe she thinks it almost wicked to be happy on Sunday."
"Well, Sarah may be as blue as she likes,—this is the kind of a day that makes me feel bright pink!"
"Where is Sarah, anyway?" asked Kitty. "I haven't seen her since breakfast. Surely she didn't miss the service?"
"No, I saw her sitting by a big tree 'way at the back," said Amanda.
"It isn't like Sarah to take a back seat—at church," remarked Blue Bonnet. "I believe she must be cross because we teased her this morning."
Grandmother and Sarah were already deep in preparations for dinner when the others straggled into camp. The well-cooked meal of muffins, fried ham, potatoes and stewed dried fruit they served met with visible as well as audible approval.
"Picnic lunches are more fun, but this kind of a meal is more—filling," said Blue Bonnet. "Let's eat all we can now and have just bread and milk forsupper—we've two cans of fresh milk in the creek."
"Blue Bonnet seems to have developed a sudden liking for 'jarring notes,' doesn't she, girls?" asked Kitty.
When dinner was done and the dishes washed, they all sought the buck-board seats in the lounging room.
"If we only had a book now, it would be fine to have Grandmother read aloud," remarked Blue Bonnet.
"You wouldn't let Sarah bring any books," Amanda reminded her.
"Nevertheless, methinks Sarah looks as if she had one up her sleeve," said Debby.
"Not up my sleeve," Sarah confessed, "—but in my bag. I'll go get it,—it's 'Don Quixote,' in Spanish and English both."
"Did you bring the drawn-work, too?" asked Kitty. "My, Sarah, but you are a first-rate smuggler!"
"Now that suspicion has raised its snaky head, I'd like to know—why is Sarah, long after the dishes are done, still wearing that apron?" Blue Bonnet had sent a random shot, but to her surprise Sarah flushed to the roots of her blond hair.
She rose hastily to go in search of "Don Quixote," but the other girls were too quick for her. They pitilessly tore the shielding apron fromher shoulders, and the newly sponged and pressed middy jacket and khaki skirt stood revealed in all their guilty freshness.
"They've been ironed!" gasped Kitty.
"What do you think of that for selfishness,—not to let a soul know she had an iron?" demanded Debby.
"I got it over at Mrs. Judson's. And none of you said you wanted an iron," said Sarah.
"And do you mean to say that our Sarah, daughter of the Reverend Samuel Blake, wilfully broke the Sabbath by ironing?" Concentrated horror appeared on Kitty's saucy countenance.
"She probably thinks 'the better the day the better the deed,'" said Blue Bonnet.
"If Mrs. Judson could press Carita's dress, I don't see that it was any worse for me to press mine," Sarah protested. "I'm used to looking respectable at church."
"It's no wonder you refused to sit by so unrespectable a crowd as the rest of us!" exclaimed Blue Bonnet.
Mrs. Clyde was laughing inwardly, but she came to the aid of the unhappy Sarah.
"I think good nature has ceased to be a virtue, Sarah," she declared. "Hereafter you have my permission to resort to violence if necessary to protect yourself. Quiet down, girls,—remember it is Sunday."
Much relieved, Sarah brought forth the contraband book and the long peaceful afternoon was spent in listening to the various mishaps that befell the valiant Don and his faithful Sancho Panza.
"If it weren't for setting a dangerous precedent, I'd tell Sarah how glad we all are that she defied the authorities and did some smuggling," remarked Kitty. She and Debby had gone to the creek to bring up the milk for supper, and now made a pretty picture as they came up the willow-grown path, bearing the tall cans.
"You look like somebody-or-other at the well," Blue Bonnet declared as Kitty came into sight.
"Are you sure you don't mean thing-a-ma-bob?" laughed Kitty. "If you mean Rebecca, I don't agree with you. I'll wager Rebecca never wore a middy blouse or carried a tin milk-can!"
That evening the inmates of both camps again sat about a big bonfire. But this time the frolics and rollicking airs had given way to a decorous singing of patriotic songs, stirring hymns and a pleasant "sermonette" by the pastor of this youthful flock.
Long after this Sunday was past, Blue Bonnet remembered it as one of the sweetest Sabbaths she had ever spent; and she could never decide just what part of the day she had liked most,—the hour in the Druid's Grove; the afternoon when Grandmother with her pleasant voice had read aloud from "Don Quixote;" or the evening, when they satabout the glowing logs, alternately singing, and listening to Dr. Judson.
"I'm going to ask Sandy to recite," Knight whispered to her as there fell a silence.
"Get him to do 'The Bridge!'" Blue Bonnet said with dancing eyes.
"I'm sure he'd rather do 'We are Seven,'" he replied, laughing.
"I wish he'd recite the 'Hymn of the Alamo,'" said Alec, who had overheard the conversation. "Ask him to, Knight,—he'll do anything for you, and that's a fine poem."
"Alec wrote an essay on the Alamo," Blue Bonnet explained to Knight, "and it won a prize—the Sargent prize—in our school this year."
Alec squirmed with a boyish dislike of hearing himself praised; but Knight slapped him on the shoulder enthusiastically.
"Bully for you, old chap! Tell the fellows the story of the Alamo, will you? Uncle Bayard likes them to hear historical things like that—can't hear them too often."
Alec looked horrified at the idea, but Blue Bonnet joined Knight in urging him. "You tell the story of the fight and maybe Sandy will finish with the Hymn."
Sandy promising to do his part, Alec finally yielded. Sinking far back in the shadow where his face could not be seen by any of the great circle oflisteners, and his voice came out of the blackness with a decided tremor in it, the boy told, and told well, the story of the frontier riflemen in their struggle for the liberation of Texas from the yoke of the Mexican dictator.
How the Texas lads thrilled at the recital of heroism, and thrilled at the mention of such names as Travis and Crockett! It was not a new tale; not a boy there but knew the story of that handful of men—less than two hundred of them—who, barricading themselves within the Alamo fortress, for ten days defied the Mexicans, over four thousand strong; only to be massacred to a man in the final heartrending fall.
Alec's voice lost its tremor and ended with a patriotic ring that made Blue Bonnet glow with pride—pride in the heroes he told of, and in the friend who told of them.
"It just needs Colonel Potter's poem to add the right climax to that bit of history," Dr. Judson declared; and Sandy stood up at once.
Sandy was used to "talking on his feet;" and he stood in an easy posture, tossing his light reddish hair back from his broad forehead, and with one hand resting lightly on the alpenstock he had been carving for Blue Bonnet.
Listening to him, Blue Bonnet lost all her early prejudice against the clever lad, and responding to the unbounded enthusiasm and the true orator'sring in the boyish voice, thrilled warmly to the spirit of the lines:
HYMN OF THE ALAMO"Arise! Man the wall—our clarion blastNow sounds its final reveille,—This dawning morn must be the lastOur fated band shall ever see.To life, but not to hope, farewell;Yon trumpet's clang and cannon's peal,And storming shout and clash of steelIsours,—but not our country's knell.Welcome the Spartan's death!'Tis no despairing strife—We fall, we die—but our expiring breathIs freedom's breath of life!"Here, on this new Thermopylae,Our monument shall tower on high,And 'Alamo' hereafter beOn bloodier fields the battle-cry!"Thus Travis from the rampart cried;And when his warriors saw the foeLike whelming billows surge below,—At once each dauntless heart replied:"Welcome the Spartan's death!'Tis no despairing strife—We fall—but our expiring breathIs freedom's breath of life!"
As Sandy resumed his seat amid a hush that was a greater tribute than applause, Blue Bonnet turned to Knight with glowing eyes.
"And to think those brave fellows did all thatfor Texas! Aren't you proud to belong to this state?"
"You'd better believe I am!"
"We've had some heroes in Massachusetts," Alec reminded them.
"And they were allAmericans—and so are we." Knight's bigger way of looking at the matter settled what threatened to grow into an argument.
"That Sandy boy's a wonder," Blue Bonnet exclaimed. "I take back every uncomplimentary remark I ever made about him. Appearances are so deceiving."
"'All that glitters isn't gold,'" said Knight, looking like his uncle as he gravely quoted this ancient maxim.
"It's a pity it isn't,—Sandy would be a millionaire with that hair of his!" Blue Bonnet laughed.
"I mean 'handsome is as handsome does,'" said Knight, "—that isn't quite so dangerous a quotation. I expect to see Sandy President some day, or at least a senator."
"Can't you imagine the newspaper headings: 'Senator Red-top of Texas'—?" laughed Blue Bonnet.
"He's hoping to go East to college this fall," Knight remarked more seriously.
"It's queer," said Alec, "how all the Western boys long to go East and all the Eastern fellowsthink they're just made if they can come West. I'd like to trade him my chance at Harvard for his health and strength."
"Can't you arrange that trifling exchange for Alec?" Blue Bonnet asked Knight.
He shook his head. "Sandy won't take anybody's chances,—he's the sort that makes his own."
"Some of us aren't allowed to."
Alec's voice had suddenly grown moody, and Blue Bonnet thought it time to change the subject. In a moment her clear, sweet voice was leading the rest in "The Flag without a Stain."
"How do you like a Texas Sunday?" Blue Bonnet found herself beside Sarah as they walked back toPoco Tiempo, and put the question rather mischievously.
"It's been very nice, most of it," Sarah returned in a stiff manner, very unlike her usual one.
"What part didn't you like?"
Sarah made sure that the others were not listening, then answered in a tone Blue Bonnet had never heard from her before:
"I didn't like being made to feel that whatever I do is the wrong thing. I never seem to please you any more, Blue Bonnet."
"Why, Sarah!" Blue Bonnet stopped still and gazed at Sarah in consternation. Sarah paused, too, and in the faint rays from the fire the two girls looked at each other steadily for a momentwithout speaking. Finally Blue Bonnet blurted out:
"I wish you'd tell me just what you mean."
"I mean that I've come to the conclusion that I should have stayed in Woodford. I don't seem to fit in here." Sarah's voice shook a little.
"Sarah!" was still all Blue Bonnet could stammer. It was all so sudden and unexpected; a bolt from a clear sky.
"Please don't think I'm thin-skinned and can't stand a little teasing," Sarah continued, "for I'm sure I can—I always have had to. But lately I haven't said a thing that hasn't made one or other of you 'hoot' as Kitty says. And everything I've wanted to do you've thought ridiculous. Lately the boys have begun to laugh at me; even those I hardly know."
This time Blue Bonnet said nothing; she was overcome by the thought that all Sarah had said was quite true. She hastily reviewed the past few weeks, and as one by one she remembered various incidents, the force of Sarah's complaints struck her anew.
Kitty's dare and that wild ride; the ban put upon Sarah's Spanish books and the much-loved drawn-work; and, lately, the almost concerted effort of all of them to convert everything Sarah said and did into something unwarranted and absurd. By the time Blue Bonnet had reached her own actionof that very morning in tearing the apron forcibly from Sarah's shoulders, she was dumb with shame. This was the way she had rewarded her friend for a loyalty that had been unswerving through all that dreadful week in Woodford, when the other girls had sent her to Coventry; for all her sweet thoughtfulness that had proved itself unfailing!
She suddenly threw her arms impulsively around Sarah's shoulders and faced her squarely.
"I've been downright horrid," she said earnestly. "And a rude, selfish hostess. I haven't any right to expect you to forgive me, Sarah, dear, but if you can find it in your heart to give another chance, I'll show you I can and will be different."
"It isn't serious enough to talk of forgiveness," Sarah said in her honest, straightforward way. "All I want to know is, that you're not—sorry—I came."
"Sarah, don't say that! You make me hate myself!" Blue Bonnet shook her almost fiercely. "You mustn't think it either. I'm glad, glad, glad you came! I've meant you to know it, and I've wanted you to have a splendid time, and here all the while—" she stopped and swallowed hard.
Sarah's face lighted up happily and she did what was for her an unprecedented thing,—she drew Blue Bonnet to her and gave her a hearty hug.
"That's all I wanted to know," she said. "Please don't imagine I haven't enjoyed myself,Blue Bonnet. It's been the most wonderful visit! I'm queer, I know, but I can't help liking the things I like, and if only the girls would stop trying to make me over—"
"I'll make them!" Blue Bonnet declared; and at this threat they both laughed, and the storm was over.
"Oh, Carita, do you really have to go to-day?" Genuine regret was in Blue Bonnet's eyes and tone.
Carita sighed.
"Yes, Grandfather expects us back at the farm to-night, and Mother never disappoints him. He's getting old and she doesn't like to leave him alone much. We may come up again before the summer is over,—Father has to be here for several weeks yet."
"But we'll be gone,—we're to leave on Wednesday, you know. Did ever days fly so before? I haven't seen half enough of you, Carita."
"You seem to belong to so many people," Carita said rather wistfully, "I've been afraid to claim too much of your time. But there are other summers. Maybe when you come back from the East next year you can come to the farm,—it isn't much of a journey on the cars."
Blue Bonnet lost herself a moment in reflection. "When she came back from the East"—why, she hadn't even decided that she was going East again—yet.
"And you can come to see me—at the Blue Bonnet ranch," she said.
Carita shook her head.
"Railroad fares are pretty high. We have to be very careful since Father lost his health. That's why we came back from India, you know. The doctors said that this climate was best for his trouble, and when Grandfather offered us a home on the farm we were so glad. But Father's not having a church—only once in a while when he fills a pulpit for a few weeks at a time—keeps us a little short. I reckon you don't know much about—being short. You have everything you want, don't you?"
"Everybody seems to think that; they forget that I haven't a mother or father—or any brothers and sisters," Blue Bonnet said very simply.
Carita threw her arms impulsively about her friend and gave her a warm kiss. "How mean of me to forget! I wish you were my sister. Boys don't always understand. But you have so many people to love you, you can't ever get lonesome. And having lots of money must be so nice, and to go away to school, and have pretty clothes and go to parties and travel, why—" Carita's breath failed her.
"I ought to be mighty thankful. And I am most of the time," Blue Bonnet replied. "But the people who love you always expect a great deal ofyou, and it's very hard to live up to their expectations. Besides, going to school isn't all fun, I can tell you."
"I wouldn't care if it weren't all fun, if I could only go. Father teaches me at home, but we have so many interruptions. There are dishes to wash, babies to mind, Grandfather to wait upon, till neither of us knows whether we're doing arithmetic or grammar." Carita rose. "I must hurry back to camp—Mother's packing."
"You never forget what's expected of you, do you?" Blue Bonnet asked, with a mixture of wonder and admiration.
"It wouldn't do for me to forget,—I'm the eldest, you know. Mother depends on me." Carita spoke as though it were the most natural thing in the world for a fourteen-year-old girl to be "depended upon."
"Nobody ever depends on me—for a very good reason!" Blue Bonnet laughed. "Somehow it's so much easier for me to forget than to remember. It's the only thing I do with shining success."
"You'll learn to be responsible when you have children of your own," Carita said as sagely as if she were forty instead of fourteen.
Blue Bonnet's eyes shone.
"I'm going to have a whole dozen!" she declared.
"I wouldn't, if I were you—it would be so hard on the eldest," Carita reminded her.
And Blue Bonnet, noticing the care-worn look in the eyes of her "missionary girl," decided that being the eldest of a big family might have its disadvantages.
"Grandmother, I wish there were something I could do for Carita," she said later that morning, as she and Mrs. Clyde found themselves alone.
"You have already done a great deal for her," her grandmother remarked. "Mrs. Judson has told me how much your letters and presents have meant to Carita."
"But that was so little,—and it was just fun for me. She has all work and no play, and I don't think it's fair."
"Perhaps you can do something for her, later on. But you must be careful how you assume responsibilities, Blue Bonnet. You seem to have taken upon yourself a great many already."
"What ones?" Blue Bonnet questioned in surprise.
"In the first place—you've me!" Grandmother smiled.
"That's so,—I'm responsible to Aunt Lucinda for you. And what others?"
"How about the We are Sevens whom you've brought so far away from their homes? And Alec?"
Blue Bonnet's eyes opened.
"I hadn't thought of them in that way. But I reckon you're right. And there's Solomon, too."
Grandmother's mouth twitched. "You must be sure you can do your full duty by the responsibilities you have before you assume new ones."
Blue Bonnet looked very serious. "Seems to me life has a heap of complications. Now there's Alec,—he's worse than a complication. He's a downright puzzle."
"Has he said anything more about his trouble?" Mrs. Clyde asked.
"Just hints. But they sound as if he were hiding something pretty bad. Sometimes I wish he would come right out with it, and then again, I'm afraid. If he keeps on looking dark and broody every time the conversation turns on the subject of health, I'm going to write the General about it. I thinkthat'smy duty."
"But Alec looks wonderfully well, bigger, broader and better in every way than when he left Woodford," Mrs. Clyde insisted.
"I know he does. But when I remarked to Knight how well Alec looked, and said I thought he ought to get rid of his foolish notion about himself now, Knight looked queer and asked, 'Do you think it a foolish notion? I think he's dead right.' And Knight's a sensible boy and wouldn't say that unless he thought so."
Mrs. Clyde's eyes reflected Blue Bonnet's look of perplexity. "Have you talked with your uncle about him?"
"No. Just after I talked with you Alec asked me not to mention the matter to any one else. That shuts out Uncle Cliff. I'm sorry, for I'm sure he'd suggest the right thing. There comes Miguel with the horses. You don't mind our riding a little way with the Judsons do you? They're nearly ready to start."
"No, so long as you are back for lunch," said her grandmother.
The boys had all gone hunting early that morning, and only the girls ofPoco Tiempowere on hand to escort the departing guests. Mrs. Clyde said good-bye to Mrs. Judson with genuine regret, and kissed all the small Judsons warmly at parting.
The whole family was packed into the two seats of the heavy farm-wagon, the mother driving with one of the boys beside her; Carita in the back seat holding Joe and, at the same time, keeping a watchful eye on the two lively youngsters by her side. Bedding and camp equipment were heaped high in the wagon-box.
"You look like a picture of 'Crossing the Plains,'" Blue Bonnet exclaimed.
"Play you're the Injuns going to scalp us!" begged Carita's brother Harry, his big dark eyes shining with eagerness.
Blue Bonnet gave a shrill "Ho, ye ho, ho!" that passed for a war-whoop, and in a minute they were all off, the farm horses rather startled at the carryings-on; the small boys wild with excitement; and the We are Sevens tearing madly down the road "ki-yi-ing" at the top of their voices.
Mrs. Clyde turned with a smile to Dr. Judson, who stood looking rather amazedly after his departing family. "Blue Bonnet is alternately five and fifteen," she remarked.
"She is decidedly refreshing," he returned. "I hope you will try to keep her a child as long as possible."
"I don't need to try!" she replied with a laugh.
The parting between the "emigrants" and the Indians was not such as history records of leave-takings between these sworn enemies. Carita had to wink hard to keep back the tears when she said good-bye to Blue Bonnet, and the little Judsons set up a loud wail when their former pursuers waved them farewell.
"It's a shame Carita has to go back and slave on that old farm," Blue Bonnet declared, as she looked after the little figure holding on to the baby with one hand and waving her handkerchief in the other.
"It seems selfish of us to be having a whole summer of fun when she's only had two or three days," said Sarah.
"Sarah talks as if it's downright wicked for anyof us to be having a good time," Kitty retorted. "Maybe you think one of us ought to change places with Carita?" she challenged Sarah.
"Sarah is the only one of us that's unselfish enough to do such a thing!" Blue Bonnet exclaimed warmly; and Sarah sent her a grateful glance.
They were in a part of the country that Blue Bonnet called "the other side of the hills,"—a land of sheep-ranches, for the most part; rather barren and level, unlike the rolling green prairie of the cattle-country she loved. They could see the Judson's wagon winding its way across the plain, until only a blur of dust marked its course towards the horizon.
"Let's hurry," said Blue Bonnet, "I promised Grandmother we'd surely be back for lunch."
"It isn't your turn to cook, is it?" asked Kitty.
"No,—it's my turn to eat!" And Blue Bonnet, urging Firefly, was off at a lively clip towards camp.
"Please stop, Blue Bonnet," panted Kitty after a few minutes of this sort of going. "I've a dreadful pain in my side."
Blue Bonnet good-naturedly fell back with her, and the rest swept past them with a chorus of taunts for being "quitters." Both girls looked after Comanche and his rider with something like wonder in their eyes. Sarah was riding like a veteran; itwas plain that she and Comanche understood each other at last.
"Sarah's coming on, isn't she?" said Kitty.
"Coming?—I think she's arrived!" Blue Bonnet exclaimed.
"She can thank me for picking out Comanche for her," remarked Kitty; she preferred herself to be the object of Blue Bonnet's approbation and could not be roused to much enthusiasm on Sarah's account.
"Considering your motive, Kitty-Kat, I'm not so sure Sarah owes you any gratitude," laughed Blue Bonnet. Suddenly she gave an exclamation. "Why, there's a lamb,—I wonder if it's dead."
"Where?" asked Kitty.
Blue Bonnet pointed to a spot some distance off the road, but Kitty's city-bred eyes could make out nothing. Just then there came a feeble bleat, and in a second Blue Bonnet had slipped from the saddle and handed the reins to Kitty.
"Hold Firefly a minute, please. Thatisa lamb!"
Kitty obediently held the unwilling Firefly, while Blue Bonnet hurried in the direction of the bleat. A moment later she stooped, and when she straightened up, there was a small woolly object in her arms.
"It's too little to travel and the mean oldmother's gone off with the flock," Blue Bonnet said, coming up with the deserted baby.
"What are you going to do with it?" demanded Kitty helplessly.
"I'm going to find the flock. It's been driven along here and inside that fence. I'm going to let down the bars and cross the field. You see the little shanty over there?—I believe there must be a shepherd somewhere about, and I'll give him the lamb. He isn't a very good shepherd or he'd have been looking out for poor little lambs. Shady used to herd sheep and he's told me lots about it."
"And what shall I do?" asked Kitty. "I'm afraid to hold Firefly,—he nearly pulls me off the saddle."
"Then tie both horses to the bars here and help me with the lamb."
Kitty offered no protest. This was so like Blue Bonnet. It was always a stray dog or a lost baby, or an old woman at the poor-house that enlisted her ready sympathy; Kitty ran over a long list in her mind. Of course it had to be a lost lamb or a calf in Texas; the wonder was there hadn't been more of them.
Hastily tying both ponies to a fence-post with a scrambling knot of the reins that would have brought down Blue Bonnet's wrath upon her hapless head, Kitty hastened across the close-cropped meadow. It seemed to her they trudged miles,taking turns carrying the lamb, before they reached the little shack. A stupid young fellow, half-asleep, lay sprawled in the shade.
"Here's a lamb we found by the road," said Blue Bonnet, proffering her woolly burden.
Without uttering a word the sleepy youth took the lamb from her; but Blue Bonnet, observing his manner of handling it, saw that he was wise in the ways of sheep, and she was content to leave her charge with him.
"Flock's over there," he said at length, pointing vaguely with his thumb.
"All right. Come on, Kitty." As they turned away she said in an undertone: "Shady says the herders are alone so much they almost forget how to talk."
"He's evidently forgotten how to say 'thank you,'" Kitty said crossly. "Why, Blue Bonnet—where are the horses?"
"You ought to know. Where did you tie them?"
Kitty's startled eyes rested on the post beside the bars. "To that post there. Oh, Blue Bonnet, some one must have stolen them!"
"Stolen? Who'd steal them, I'd like to know? This comes, Kitty Clark, of letting you hitch a horse!" Blue Bonnet was straining her eyes for a sight of the runaways.
"This comes, Blue Bonnet Ashe, of followingyou on every wild-goose chase you choose to lead me!" Cross, tired and out of patience, Kitty flared up in one of her sudden outbursts, and Blue Bonnet took fire at once.
"If you think I'm going to let a poor creature starve to death rather than disturb your comfort, you're much mistaken!" An angry glance passed between them.
Sarah, the pacifier, was several miles away by this time; and even she would have felt her resources sorely taxed to meet this emergency. Miles from camp and no horses!
Kitty stalked into the road and started to walk, holding her head high and swinging her arms as thoughshedidn't mind a little matter of five or six miles. Blue Bonnet, with the training of a lifetime, stopped to put up the bars before setting out on the long tramp. It was already noon and the sun glared down, unbearably hot. Before she had gone a mile Blue Bonnet looked about for a mesquite bush, and finding one sank down in its shade. Kitty kept doggedly on.
"Oh, Kitty!" Blue Bonnet called after her. "I've heard of people who hadn't sense enough to come in out of the rain, and I think it's a heap sillier not to have sense enough to come in out of the sun!"
Kitty wavered; and was lost. Turning back she threw herself beside Blue Bonnet with a groan.
"My feet are one big blister," she moaned, her anger swallowed up in the anguish of the moment.
"We can't possibly walk," said Blue Bonnet. "And I've an idea. If that cloud of dust I saw on the road towards camp was Firefly and Rowdy—and it probably was—the girls will soon be after us."
And so it proved; except that it was Alec and Knight instead of the girls who came riding furiously down the road in search of them. When Alec heard Blue Bonnet's ranch-call he threw his hat in the air with a whoop of relief.
"We've been looking for your mangled remains all along the way," he declared, as they reached the girls. "We had the fright of our lives when Firefly and Rowdy came trotting into camp minus their riders."
"You thought we'd been thrown?" Blue Bonnet asked.
"I would have thought so if there had been only one, but it didn't seem likely that both of you could have come a cropper," Knight replied.
"Is Grandmother worried?" Blue Bonnet asked hastily.
"She doesn't know. The girls didn't tell her anything except that you and Kitty had loafed along the way. She didn't see the horses. But we'd better hurry back."
Each boy had led one of the errant ponies, and now the girls mounted and lost no time in getting back to camp.
"I'm so sorry—" Blue Bonnet began to speak as soon as she came within sight of her grandmother, "—I didn't mean to be so late."
"I can't quite understand, Blue Bonnet, why you and Kitty could not come back with the other girls. It is long past noon." Mrs. Clyde had been worried, and required more of an explanation than an apology. Blue Bonnet's tired face and dusty, dishevelled clothes spoke eloquently of adventure.
"I stopped to pick up a lamb,—its mother had gone on with the flock and left it to starve. Shady says lots of sheep don't care about their children. That's why he likes beef-critters best,—cows always make good mothers. And Kitty and I found the shepherd and gave him the lamb to take care of."
The annoyance faded from Grandmother's face and her eyes softened.
Uncle Joe, who had been an interested listener, spoke up—"Say, Honey, why didn't you bring the lamb home?—fresh meat is just what we've been needing."
"Uncle Joe!" Horror rang in Blue Bonnet's voice. "Do you think I'd have eaten that poor little darling?"
He scratched a puzzled head. "Why seems likeI've known you to eat nice young roast lamb, Blue Bonnet."
"That's different," she insisted.
"The only acquaintances Blue Bonnet is willing to have roasted are her friends!" said Kitty; and Blue Bonnet generously let her have the last word.
"There'sonly one thing nicer than going camping," Blue Bonnet declared.
Her grandmother looked up. "And that is—?"
"Getting home again!" Blue Bonnet laughed happily.
They were in sight of the ranch-house now, and could see the girls and Alec dismounting at the veranda steps. Don and Solomon leaping excitedly about the group, suddenly caught sight of the approaching buckboard and raced madly to meet their mistress. Even the horses seemed glad to be home again and tired as they were with the long day's travel broke into a trot.
Benita's brown face beamed at them from the doorway, and over her shoulder peered Juanita, with eyes only for Miguel.
Kitty had sunk immediately into one of the deep veranda chairs.
"I had to see how it feels to sit in a real live chair with a back once more," she explained. "And next I want to look at myself in a mirrorthat's more than three inches square; and have a drink out of a glass tumbler; and put on a clean white, fluffy dress!"
They each did all these things as eagerly as if they had been marooned on a desert island for many months; even Grandmother Clyde wearing fresh white linen, and Alec, for the first time on the ranch appearing in a starched shirt. Whereupon the girls broke into deafening applause.
"Letters, letters for everybody!" cried Blue Bonnet bursting into the living-room with a great bundle of mail. "Three for you and one for me, Grandmother,—postmarked Turino. Heaps for you, Kitty, ditto for Sarah, Amanda, Debby, Alec,—all Woodford must have joined in a round-robin. Hurry and read them and then everybody swap news!"
A long silence ensued, as profound as it was rare, while each girl pored over the precious home letters. It was Kitty who looked up first.
"Susy didn't catch the fever,—and Ruth's all over it. And she's had to have all her hair cut off, and she's dreadfully thin and doesn't seem to get her strength back as she should, Father says. He thinks she has fretted over having to miss the ranch party,—and no wonder!—it would simply have killed me. Susy's been a regular trump and hasn't complained a bit, but every one knows it's been a dreadful disappointment, especially when shewas perfectly well and could have come if it hadn't been for Ruth."
"It's a downright shame!" Blue Bonnet declared.
"Father says if Ruth doesn't feel better soon she'll probably have to stay out of school this fall," Kitty continued.
"Then I should say she hadn't suffered in vain," exclaimed Blue Bonnet; Grandmother was deep in her letters.
"But think how mean it would be to have one of the We are Sevens out of school. You know how you love to 'have things complete,'" Amanda reminded her.
"Yes, but—" she began; then feeling her grandmother's eyes upon her, failed to finish. It was odd how the girls took it for granted that she was going back with them. And she was not at all sure, herself.
The girls had not noticed her hesitation, and were already exchanging other bits of home news and gossip. Alec alone was silent. Blue Bonnet, stealing a look at him saw that he had finished his letters and was staring moodily out of the window, unmindful of all the gay chatter about him.
"Did you get bad news, Alec?" she asked him, later that evening, as he accompanied her to the stable to see Texas and Massachusetts.
"That depends on the way you look at it. Boyd is coming back from Europe to take the West Point examinations—"
Blue Bonnet smothered an exclamation: she had seen that coming.
"—and Grandfather says that since the Army seems out of the question for me, he thinks I had better hurry home and take the Harvard exams. He seems set on it."
"And you don't want to?"
"It isn't to be thought of." Alec's mouth was very determined.
Now why, if West Point was disposed of, could he not take the next best—or in her opinion the very best—thing that offered? It was on the point of Blue Bonnet's tongue to put the question, when Alec spoke again.
"I've been putting off writing Grandfather,—what I told you a while ago,—thinking I might feel different after a time. But I'm more convinced than ever now. I had a long talk with Knight's friend 'Doc' Abbott, and he gave me a thorough going over, as he called it—"
"And what did he say?"
"He agrees with me, absolutely. There's no Harvard or any other college for Alec Trent—"
"Oh, Alec!" Blue Bonnet was trembling. To hide it she bent and picked up little Texas, stroking one of his silky ears. The coyotes had been placedin the empty rabbit-hutch, and were growing prodigiously.
"Well, it's better to know the truth and face it, isn't it?" Alec asked, as if rather resenting her tone.
"Yes, but—I can't see how you can speak so lightly about it. It's so dreadfully—serious."
"Lightly?" echoed Alec. "You're mistaken, Blue Bonnet. I know it's a mighty serious business for me. Why, if I could view it lightly, I could sit down and write Grandfather about it this very minute—"
"Well, if you don't, I'm going to!" she declared.
"Will you? Oh, Blue Bonnet, that's just what I've been hoping you'd do!" The relief in Alec's tone was unmistakable. "He's mighty fond of you, and I'm sure he'd consider that it came better from you than from me. And it will be a lot easier for you to do it, under the circumstances."
Easier! Blue Bonnet bent hastily and put Texas back in the bunny-house so that Alec might not see her face. If he had not been absorbed in his own thoughts he must have seen what a shock his words had been to her. It was so unlike Alec to put upon a girl a task he felt too hard for himself,—a sort of cowardice of which she would never have believed him capable. It took her some seconds to steady her voice before she could answer:
"I'll write to-morrow."
"You're a trump, Blue Bonnet! I seem to get deeper and deeper into your debt," he said earnestly.
Blue Bonnet fastened the little door of the rabbit-hutch, leaving Texas and Massachusetts to one of their frequent naps, and then walked back to the house in silence. Alec, observing her, believed her to be composing her letter to the General.
"The first of August to-day, just think how our summer is flying!" remarked Amanda next morning.
"Just three weeks to Blue Bonnet's birthday," said Sarah, who was engaged in making some mental calculations.
"Sixteen! Just think how old I'm getting!" Blue Bonnet's smile showed her not at all depressed at the prospect.
Uncle Joe cleared his throat gruffly. Why on earth did everybody keep harping on Blue Bonnet's growing up?
"I reckon you'll be having some howling celebration?" he asked rather crossly.
"You wager we will!" Uncle Cliff replied, all the more cheerfully because he guessed the reason for Uncle Joe's irritation. "A sixteenth birthday only comes once in a lifetime."
Mrs. Clyde, feeling an unusual sympathy with Uncle Joe, was silent.
"We must have some sort of a party that's—different," exclaimed Blue Bonnet.
"Everything's different in Texas," Sarah remarked, and the usual laugh followed.
"We can't have a dance without any boys," Blue Bonnet reflected.
"No boys?" exclaimed Uncle Joe, with a return of his twinkle, "Well, for a ranch that keeps a baker's dozen of cowboys—"
"All Mexicans except Sandy and Pete!" exclaimed Blue Bonnet scornfully.
"I'll agree to furnish a boy apiece for the festive occasion," said Uncle Cliff; and Blue Bonnet, exchanging a glance with him, knew he was nursing a well-laid scheme. "Now, listen," he continued. "I've been thinking over this thing—had time to think this last week!—and I've got it all figured out. My idea is to have an all-day affair, a real old-fashioned Spanish tournament."
Blue Bonnet clapped her hands. "Oh, Uncle Cliff, you do think of the most glorious things!"
"In the morning," Uncle Cliff went on, "we could have a steer-roping contest—the Mexicans adore that—and Señorita Ashe bestow the prizes. And then—"
"Some bronco-busting," suggested Uncle Joe. Blue Bonnet turned pale and Uncle Cliff kicked his foreman under the table.
"None of that," he said briefly. "Too crude for our select company."
"A bull-fight, then," Uncle Joe persisted,"—that's Spanish, and the most seeleck ladies adore the ring."
"Oh, no!" cried Blue Bonnet, before she caught the gleam of mischief in the speaker's eye.
"We might have some races in the pasture," Alec suggested.
"Sure!" exclaimed Uncle Cliff. "And end with a grand fête in the evening,—and give everybody a holiday."
"Won't it be a great deal of work?" Mrs. Clyde inquired.
"Heaps. But these greasers never have enough to do,—we'll make them work for once," Mr. Ashe replied.
"What shall we wear?" Of course it was Kitty who asked.
"Oh, girls, I've the loveliest plan,—you don't mind, do you, Grandmother, if I get out my Spanish costume again?"
Grandmother smiled at a sudden recollection. "No, dear. I think it would fit this occasion admirably."
"But we haven't Spanish costumes!" said Debby and Amanda in a breath.
"Get them!" Blue Bonnet exclaimed. "Any old-fashioned, bright-colored gown will do to begin with, and a lace scarf for mantilla—"
"But where are we to get the gowns,—they don't grow on bushes," demanded Kitty.
"There is such a thing as a post, Kitty, and an express company. And you know your attics at home are full of lovely old things."
"Then we'll have to send right away to get them here in time."
The girls rose as if there were not a moment to lose, and, later in the day, Shady rode to Jonah with a well-filled mail-bag.
Blue Bonnet spent the entire morning over the composition of her letter to General Trent. When she sat down soberly to write Alec's grandfather a plain statement of facts, she found she had no facts to tell,—only a host of vague fears and hints that Alec had uttered from time to time. It was hardly to be wondered at, therefor, that her epistle when finished was pervaded with mystery of a veiled sort that made the General knit his brow, fall into a brown study, and then stalk off to the telegraph office.
It was Uncle Cliff who received the message and the matter aroused no comment. It said simply: