The Girl from the Big Horn Country

“These are our next door neighbors, Virginia,” she said, “Imogene Meredith and Vivian Winters. And this is Virginia Hunter from the Big Horn Mountains in Wyoming.”

“Indeed?” remarked the one called Imogene, raising her eyebrows and extending a rather languid hand. “Quite off the map, n’est-ce pas?” and she laughed.

She was tall with dark, extremely-dressed hair, and eyes that did not meet your own. Her dress was of the latest fashion, and she wore several pieces of expensive jewelry. Virginia was embarrassed by her easy, uninterested manner, and her strange laugh. Vivian Winters she liked better. Vivian was short with a sweet, childish face, and wistful blue eyes. She, too, was dressed far too lavishly for school, Virginia felt, but she liked her all the same, and did not feel at all embarrassed in replying to her pleasant little welcome. As she looked at them, she recalled the conversation she had heard between Priscilla and Dorothy in the train, and she thought she understood Priscilla’s feeling toward Imogene. But, perhaps, they were both mistaken, and she wouldn’t begin by being prejudiced. Just then Dorothy called Imogene to her room at the other end of the hall, and Priscilla took Virginia to their own room.

“There’s a huge box here for you,” she said, as they went down the hall. “It nearly fills the room.”

“Oh, it’s my saddle here already!” cried Virginia. “It is a huge box, isn’t it?”

“Your—what?” asked the amazed Priscilla, and listened open-mouthed while Virginia explained, and told her about Jim and the others. So interested did she become that before they realized it, the supper-bell had rung, and found them sitting side by side on the big box, friends already.

“I never heard anything so interesting in all my life,” exclaimed Priscilla, as they searched for hairbrushes and towels among their confused luggage. “And will you really teach me to ride?”

“Why, of course, I will. You’ll love it! Oh, I’m sorry to be late the very first night!”

“That’s the best time of all, because they expect it then. Besides, Miss Green’s dining out, and Miss Wallace—you’ll love her!—took Lucile Du Bose to town to see the oculist. Mary’s in charge tonight, and she’ll excuse us.”

“Is Mary part teacher?” Virginia asked, puzzled.

No, not that exactly, Priscilla explained; but each year the girls of the different cottages elected one of their number who would be a Senior the next year to be a kind of cottage monitor, to take charge of the table and study hours when the teachers were out.

It was an honor to be elected, because it meant that the girls considered you trustworthy; and every one at St. Helen’s knew and trusted Mary Williams.

Virginia admired Mary more than ever. It must be wonderful, she thought as she tied her hair-ribbon and searched for a clean handkerchief, to be trusted by every one in school. Could they say that of her when she became a Senior?

“What are you, Priscilla?” she asked as they went down-stairs.

“I’m a Junior,” said Priscilla, “and so are Dorothy and Imogene. Anne is a Senior like Mary. Vivian’s a Sophomore, and Lucile Du Bose, too, they say. As for Miss Van Rensaelar, no one knows. Maybe she’s a post-grad. She sounds very grand.”

That evening they finished unpacking, and by nine o’clock their room was quite settled. The Navajo rugs were on the floor—the envy of the house. The saddle-box they had covered, and with pillows it made quite a picturesque divan. Of course, the effect was lessened in the mind of any one who might attempt to sink down upon it, but it looked well, and there were chairs enough without it. Each cot was covered with afghan and pillows. Even the pictures were hung, and their few treasured books, of which Virginia discovered to her joy Priscilla was as fond as she, were placed in the little wall book-case from Virginia’s room at home. Altogether the big room had a cheery, homelike atmosphere, and they both felt very happy.

Before going to bed they visited their neighbors. Mary and Anne’s room they found not unlike their own, only there were even more books about, and an adorable tea-table with brass kettle and little alcohol lamp, for Seniors were allowed to serve tea on Saturday afternoons. Dorothy’s room was in a sad state of upheaval, the Navajo rug, carefully spread on the floor, being the only sign of an attempt at settlement. Dorothy herself was curled up on the couch, deep in a magazine. Her room-mate had not returned she said, so why arrange things? Their ideas might not harmonize.

The room opposite their own, occupied by Imogene and Vivian, was settled in a most unsettled manner. Virginia thought as she entered that never in her life had she seen so many things in one room. One entire wall was festooned with a dreaded fish-net, in which were caught literally hundreds of relatives, friends, and acquaintances; the other walls were covered with pennants. The couches were so piled with pillows that one could not find room to sit down; the dressers were loaded with costly silver toilet articles, and more friends in silver frames; even the curtains were heavy with souvenirs, which were pinned to them. There were no books, except a few school-books, tucked under the desk, and no pictures, save highly decorated posters, wedged among the pennants, where a few inches of bare space had not been allowed to remain uncovered. It all gave Virginia a kind of stifled sensation, and she was glad to return to their own room when the nine-thirty bell had rung.

It was strange to crawl into her cot-bed opposite Priscilla; strange to talk in whispers for a few moments, and then to say “Good-night.” For a few more moments she wondered with a wave of homesickness, more for her father than for herself, what they were all doing at home. Were they sleeping while the mountains kept their silent night watch? No, that could not be, for the time was different. Colonel Standish had explained that to her on the journey East. Dear Colonel Standish! What was that difference? Was it two hours earlier at Hillcrest? Then it would be only eight o’clock at home. Or was it—? But her tired head, so weary from the day’s excitement, refused to reckon differences in time, and Virginia fell asleep.

CHAPTER VII—“PERTAINING ESPECIALLY TO DECORUM”

The first two weeks of Virginia’s life at St. Helen’s passed without a cloud. The hours were as golden as the October days themselves. She and Priscilla liked each other better every day. She had already become acquainted with many of the girls at the other cottages, and she found them as jolly and merry as those at The Hermitage. She liked them—almost every one—and although at first her frank way of speaking, and the strangeness of her accent had puzzled and surprised them, they liked Virginia. Of course, all things accepted, they might have preferred being born in Massachusetts to Wyoming, for to many of them, as to Grandmother Webster, Wyoming seemed more or less of a wilderness, and a ranch rather a queer kind of home, but they had the good sense, and better manners, not to announce their preferences to Virginia; and as the days went by they liked her more and more. Wyoming might be a wilderness, they said to themselves; but this ranch-bred girl certainly was as cultured as any girl at St. Helen’s. So the letters which Virginia wrote almost daily to her father were very happy ones, and she almost began to doubt the possibility of being homesick in this beautiful place. Still, there were many weeks yet to come!

Her studies, with Miss King’s help, had been pleasantly arranged; and, thanks to her book of compositions she had brought, her wide reading, and her year of Algebra in the country school, she found herself, to her great joy, ranked as a Sophomore, and in classes with Lucile and Vivian. She liked Vivian very much, and tried hard to like Imogene for Vivian’s sake. As for Lucile, she found her interesting in a queer foreign kind of way, for Lucile’s French father, and her years in Paris and Lausanne, had given her ways hardly American. Besides, Virginia agreed with Dorothy, she would like Lucile for Miss Wallace’s sake alone; for Virginia, as the prophets had foretold, already loved Miss Wallace with unswerving loyalty.

Two more different persons than Miss Margaret Wallace and Miss Harriet Green would have been hard to find, especially housed beneath one roof, and presumably dedicated to the same ideals. Miss Wallace was young, enthusiastic, and attractive in appearance and personality; Miss Green was middle-aged, languid, and unattractive, certainly in appearance, and, as far as one could judge, in personality. Both were scrupulously conscientious, but Miss Wallace enforced the rules because she loved the girls, and Miss Green because it was her duty. Moreover, Margaret Wallace, remembering her own recent college days, trusted the girls before she suspected them; whereas Miss Green reversed the proceedings, and watched them closely before she decided to trust. The result of these different methods may be imagined. The girls obeyed Miss Wallace, because she never expected them to do otherwise. If they obeyed Miss Green, it was done unwillingly to save trouble.

Be it said to Miss Green’s credit that she was an excellent teacher. The colleges which the St. Helen’s girls entered, expected and received girls whose training in Latin and Greek was unexcelled. She had been ten years at St. Helen’s. Perhaps her superior teaching and her unshaken faithfulness to duty, more than offset her failure, which she herself did not perceive, as a disciplinarian. However that might be, the girls at St. Helen’s did not love Miss Green.

Virginia, being a new-comer, resolved to like her; and to that end she really strove, being the one girl in The Hermitage and often the only one in school, who defended the teacher, whose strict adherence to her own interpretation of duty brought with it sad mishaps, often for the girls and sometimes for herself. Even Mary, who was Miss Green’s helper, though she did not say much at the indignation meetings of the other girls, quite clearly did not like Miss Green.

“I think it’s sweet of you, Virginia, to stand up for her,” Priscilla announced one evening, as they wrestled with extra hard Latin lessons, “but your time hasn’t come yet. I hope you’ll always be able to like Greenie, but I have my doubts.”

“Well, I’m going to try hard, anyway. Of course, I shan’t love her—I don’t hope for that—but she seems so left out with us all loving Miss Wallace so much, that I’m going to try.”

“That’s just what I thought when I came last year,” observed the experienced Priscilla. “But after she just the same as accused me of borrowing the down-stairs ink-bottle and never returning it, I couldn’t like her any longer.”

Whether Miss Green liked the gray-eyed Western girl, who was trying so hard in the face of so many odds to like her was not as yet known. Perhaps she was slowly deciding whether or not Virginia might be trusted; and very soon events were to come to pass requiring that decision to be made.

The two halcyon weeks of October passed, and the shortened days began to grow colder. Already there was a touch of November in the air; and the girls were beginning to prefer to spend the half hour after supper around the open fire than out-of-doors. On Friday evening of the third week of school, there being a shorter study period of from eight to nine o’clock, they stayed later than usual, talking of various subjects as they sat on the floor around the open fire. Among other things they spoke of their “vocations” in life—each painting in glowing colors the ideal of her life-work. Mary was going to teach, and she already had her pattern, she said shyly, not venturing to look toward Miss Wallace out of courtesy to poor Miss Green, who sat opposite. Anne, who loved nothing so well as “doctoring” the girls when they would permit, would be a Red Cross nurse, bearing cheer and consolation wherever she went, like Mrs. Browning’s “Court Lady,” though she should wear a uniform instead of satin. Dorothy would go on the stage and charm young and old, like Maude Adams, her idol, and never take part in any but up-lifting plays. Lucile longed to have a villa outside of Paris, and help poor American students, who had come to Paris to study art and had been unfortunate and unsuccessful. She had seen so many, she said. They were so pathetic; and she would give them encouragement and a fresh start. Priscilla said with a little embarrassment, that since every one was telling the truth, she must admit that she dreamed of being an author, and writing books that should inspire the world; and Virginia, who sat by her, all at once squeezed her hand tightly, and said that she longed to write also. Imogene “hadn’t decided,” and Vivian made them all laugh by saying she wanted more than anything else to have a home for orphan babies and take care of them every one herself.

Miss Wallace and Miss Green listened, the one with sympathetic, the other with amused interest. Neither of them spoke until the girls had finished; and then Miss Green, feeling that perhaps it was her duty to declare that dreams were fleeting, said,

“You must be careful, my dears, that unlike Ibsen’s ‘Master Builder,’ you can climb as high as you build. Dreams are very well, but I have lived long enough to discover that one’s vocation in life is usually thrust upon her.”

“Horrors!” cried Dorothy. “Then I won’t have any!”

The others were silent, all conscious of a dampening of enthusiasm. Miss Wallace stirred a little uneasily in her chair. Virginia, being honestly interested in Miss Green’s observation, and feeling intuitively that some one should speak, broke the silence.

“Was your vocation thrust upon you, Miss Green?” she asked politely.

“It was,” returned that lady, a little icily, the girls thought, but Virginia mistook the tone for one of regret.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “You can’t be half so interested in it as you would be if you could have chosen it. If I were you, I would change, and choose another.”

An inadvertent giggle from Imogene broke the embarrassed silence which followed Virginia’s remark; and led Miss Green to mistake Virginia’s honest interest for ill-bred sarcasm. She gathered the gray knit shawl, which she often wore, more closely about her shoulders, rose from her chair and left the room, saying in a frigid tone as she went:

“Will you come to my room, Virginia, immediately upon the ringing of the study-bell?”

“Why—certainly—Miss Green,” stammered poor surprised Virginia.

“Mean old thing!” muttered Dorothy, as a slam of Miss Green’s door announced her complete departure. “Virginia didn’t—”

“Dorothy,” warned Miss Wallace quietly.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Wallace. I forgot.”

Then Miss Wallace tactfully turned the conversation into other channels, but Virginia could not enter into it with any interest. She could not think how she had been impolite. Such a thought had never entered her mind. Why had Imogene laughed? She caught Priscilla and Mary looking reproachfully at Imogene. Even Dorothy seemed annoyed. The study-bell put an end to the forced conversation, and as Virginia went slowly toward Miss Green’s room, after encouraging pats and squeezes from the girls, who left her to go up-stairs, Miss Wallace asked Imogene to remain a few moments with her.

Virginia found Miss Green still in the gray shawl, and more icy and forbidding than when she had hurried from the room.

“Sit down, Virginia.” Virginia obeyed, sitting on the couch.

“I must ask you to come nearer where I can see you more closely.”

Virginia came nearer. Miss Green cleared her throat.

“I feel it my duty, Virginia, to talk with you. I am, indeed, sorry to be obliged to reprimand you so soon after your entrance in the school. I cannot understand your rudeness of—”

“But, Miss Green,” Virginia interrupted, because she could not help it, “really I—”

“Do not add to your impoliteness by interrupting. Allow me to finish.”

Virginia stammered an apology, her cheeks flushing painfully, her eyes bright, her heart rebellious.

“Will you explain your rude suggestion as to my change of occupation? Will you attempt to justify Imogene’s giggle? It all looks to me like a contemptible conspiracy! Now, you may speak.”

But for a long moment Virginia could not speak. Had she been at all to blame, she would have burst out crying; but the injustice of it all made her angry and too proud to cry. She choked back the tears which were blinding her eyes, and tried to swallow the lump in her throat. Miss Green waited, the epitome of wounded patience. At last Virginia spoke, and she spoke frankly, for she had not been in school long enough to know the meaning of diplomacy.

“Miss Green,” she said, “I think you are very unjust. I felt sorry for you when you said your vocation had been thrust upon you. That is why I said I thought you would be happier if you changed. I don’t know why Imogene laughed; but I think you are suspicious to think of a conspiracy. I don’t know what you mean.”

“Do not add impertinence to the list of your misdemeanors, Virginia.” Miss Green was becoming angry—calmly so, perhaps, but angry.

“I do not mean to be impertinent, Miss Green. I—I—have been trying hard to like you”—her voice quavered and broke—“but I think you are unfair to me.”

Miss Green’s eyes and mouth opened simultaneously. She had never dreamed of such frankness in a pupil brought before her for a reprimand! She fidgeted uncomfortably in her chair. Perhaps, this interview had been long enough. It did not seem fruitful.

“Do not try to like me, I beg of you, Virginia. You seem to find it hard work. But I tell you, as I tell all my pupils, the day will come when you will be deeply grateful to me for my correction.”

In her tumultuous heart Virginia doubted the arrival of that day of gratitude. She waited for Miss Green to finish.

“We will grant, perhaps, that you may not have meant rudeness. I will give you the benefit of the doubt. But we must admit that you were hardly decorous in your remarks. Have you anything to say?”

Suddenly into Virginia’s’ mind there came an idea—so quickly that she smiled a little, greatly to Miss Green’s discomfiture.

“Yes, please,” she answered in reply to the question asked her. “I can’t seem to think. What is the noun for ‘decorous’?”

Miss Green’s eyes and mouth again widened, this time in greater astonishment. Evidently, this interview was not producing the desired change of heart. It would far better be ended. She cleared her throat again.

“The noun for ‘decorous’ is ‘decorum.’ I am sorry my words have had no greater effect. Goodnight.”

“Of course, it’s decorum” said Virginia, as she went toward the door. “How foolish of me to forget! You’ve really given me a brand new idea, Miss Green. Good-night.” And she went upstairs, leaving behind her a puzzled and almost angry woman, whose knowledge of having done her duty was in some way quite eclipsed by a strange, yet indisputable, sense of having been badly beaten.

Study hour was in session when Virginia hurried through the hall toward her room; but two doors noiselessly opened as she passed, and four hands extended notes, which she took wonderingly. The door opposite her own did not open. In her room, Priscilla, instead of studying, was writing furiously in her “Thought Book,” which, apparently unread, had been sent two weeks before. As Virginia came in, she jumped up from the desk, and threw her arms around her.

“You poor, dear thing!” she cried. “We’re all furious! You didn’t do one thing but be polite. We’re more furious at Imogene for giggling! That only aroused Greenie’s suspicions. What did she say? Was she awful? I’m so glad you’re not crying. You got the notes, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” said Virginia, returning the embrace. She read the notes. All expressed a mixture of fury, loyalty, and sympathy. Then she took down her own “Thought Book,” for she had also begun to keep one, and placed the notes carefully between its pages. Priscilla watched her, puzzled. Most of the girls were crying with rage when they came from Miss Green’s room. Virginia opened the back part of her “Thought Book,” and separated some thirty pages from those before. Then she dipped her pen in the ink, but before writing, turned to Priscilla.

“Priscilla,” she said slowly, “she is a very unjust woman. I think she is very nearly a cruel one. I shall never try to like her again!”

While Priscilla watched her, more puzzled than ever, she began to write in large letters on the first of the pages thus separated.

“‘ALL TRUE WISDOM IS GAINED ONLY

THROUGH EXPERIENCE.’”

“Experience I. Oct. 18. I have learned that the most careful politeness may be called rudeness. Also that Pity is not akin to Love, even though the Bible says it is. Also, that remarks, intended to be polite, about one’s vocation, had best be avoided, especially when it is previously known that one’s vocation has been thrust upon her.

She closed the book, and replaced it in her desk. Afterward she sat for a long moment watching a crescent moon sink below the horizon.

“Are you going to study to-night, Priscilla?” she asked at last.

Priscilla turned almost fiercely upon her. “I shall fail in Latin on Monday and Tuesday, anyway,” she said, with unreasoning loyalty, “and maybe on Wednesday, and I’m not exactly sure about Thursday. I know it will hurt me and not her, but it doesn’t seem as though I could ever get a good lesson for her again.”

At nine there was an indignation meeting in their room, which every one attended, except Imogene and Vivian, and at which Virginia, though the center of attraction, said little. She appreciated their loyalty, but somehow she could not talk. It had all surprised her too much. But the others could talk. The room hummed with their vehement whisperings.

“It just shows how suspicious she is!”

“Never mind, Virginia. It’s no disgrace to you.”

“It’s really Imogene’s fault. Why did she giggle like that?”

“Do you suppose it could have been on purpose?” Courageous Anne ventured to give voice to a suspicion which, except for Dorothy, seemed general enough.

But Dorothy, though annoyed at Imogene’s thoughtlessness, which had caused trouble for Virginia, was loath to believe that it had arisen from anything but thoughtlessness. To speak truly, Dorothy was fascinated by Imogene—her wit, money, clothes, and, above all, by her air of wisdom, and her “don’t care” ways. Therefore she defended her hotly.

“Of course it wasn’t on purpose, Anne!” she said indignantly. “Imogene wouldn’t do such a thing!” But the silence which followed seemed to show that all did not share Dorothy’s confidence; and Anne, growing more courageous, said:

“I’m not so sure about that.”

“I’d like to know what Miss Wallace said to her.”

“So should I.”

“She was plain mad when she came up-stairs, for she slammed the door like anything.”

“Yes, and I heard her give Vivian fits for having the window open.”

But Imogene kept her own counsel, and no one knew what Miss Wallace had said. Neither did they learn that night from Virginia of her interview with Miss Green. Her strange silence during the conference quelled the curiosity which prompted them to ask; and, when the nine-thirty bell rang, they went home, feeling that she was queer some way but that they liked her more than ever.

The world had suddenly lost its brightness for Virginia. She undressed in silence, and was in bed before Priscilla, who sat on the edge of her cot a moment before going to her own, and hugged her room-mate sympathetically. Virginia returned the hug with a bear-like one of her own, and kissed Priscilla good-night, but still she could not talk. Neither could she go to sleep. Long after Priscilla’s breathing showed that she had forgotten indignation and all else, Virginia lay awake, choking back a great, obstinate lump of homesickness, which would rise in her throat. She longed for her father. He would understand as no one else could. She longed for Don, who would call Miss Green “an old prune.” Most of all she longed for her own big country, where, her poor injured heart told her, people didn’t look for impoliteness. And just this morning she had been so happy!

Then the tears came, and she sobbed into her pillow. “I’m not plucky at all,” she thought, “because I am homesick, and I don’t care if I am!” She felt better after a good cry, and thought she could go to sleep, but the room seemed warm and close, though the windows were open. She got out of bed, put on her kimono, and went to the French windows which opened upon the porch. The moon had set, but the sky was clear and star-filled. Unhesitatingly she opened the doors and stepped out. From where she stood no trees obstructed her view of the campus. The buildings stood dark and dim among the trees. It was so still that she could hear the brook falling over the stones, half a mile away. She felt better out there under the sky—somewhat as she felt among the mountains at home.

All at once she heard steps on the gravel walk. Who could be out so late. A bulky form emerging from the firs and coming along the walk below where she stood answered her question. It was Michael, the old night watchman. Were it not for fear of disturbing some one she would call to him, for she liked his funny Irish ways, and already they had become good friends. She went nearer the railing to watch him as he walked slowly toward West Cottage, and as she moved a board in the floor of the porch creaked.

Michael looked up hastily, and descried her figure. He had been too long at St. Helen’s not to know that young ladies on porches at midnight usually meant mischief, and he hurriedly retraced his steps toward The Hermitage, rounded the cottage, and—truly Fate was unkind!—rapped on Miss Green’s instead of Miss Wallace’s window.

So perfectly innocent was Virginia that she did not for one moment connect Michael’s return with herself. Miss Green’s room was on the other side of the cottage from her own, and she could not hear Michael’s quiet warning. Therefore, she was surprised and not a little startled when she found herself five minutes later enveloped in a strange light. She turned around quickly to see in the doorway Miss Green, clothed in a gray flannel wrapper, and armed with a miniature search-light, which always accompanied her on her night journeyings. Virginia felt a strange desire to laugh. Miss Green’s scant locks were arranged in curl-papers about her forehead; she still wore her spectacles; and the combination gave the sinister effect of a beetle. But the look on Miss Green’s countenance checked the unborn laugh.

“What are you doing here on the porch at midnight?” Miss Green’s words were punctuated with pauses of horror.

“Something inside of me said I’d feel happier out here, Miss Green.”

Virginia’s honest eyes looked into Miss Green’s shrinking ones. Miss Green apparently felt uncomfortable. She wrestled again with that disagreeable sense of having been beaten. Slow as she was to perceive honesty, she could not doubt this girl who faced her with flushed cheeks and tear-swollen eyes. She stood aside, shivering in the night air, to let Virginia enter her room. Then she followed her. Once inside, she hesitated a moment, then locked the French windows, and slipped the key into her capacious pocket. Virginia’s unwavering eyes watched her. She cleared her throat nervously.

“I need hardly remind you, Virginia, that it is highly indecorous for a young lady to stand on a porch at midnight in a kimono! Moreover, let us ever avoid all appearance of evil.”

Then she went. Virginia heard her padded footsteps stealing down the stairs. Priscilla had, fortunately, not awakened. Virginia was too surprised to be angry. Had it really happened, or was it just a dream? She tried the French windows to make sure. They were securely locked. Then she laughed as she remembered Miss Green’s curlpapers and spectacles and horrified expression.

She felt better after she had laughed. Perhaps now she could go to sleep. But not yet! She suddenly remembered her “Thought Book.” This evening had been rich in new experiences. She did not venture to turn on the light. That might be indecorous at midnight. But, kneeling by the window, she traced these words by the dim light:

“Experience II. One need hardly be reminded that it is highly indecorous for a young lady to stand on a porch at midnight in a kimono. Moreover, let us ever avoid all appearance of evil!”

Then she crawled into bed and fell asleep.

CHAPTER VIII—THE LAST STRAW

No really human girl, especially with the memory of Miss Green, clothed in curl-papers and horror, fresh in her mind, could resist relating such an experience as that of the night before to her roommate at least. Virginia was really human, and so she told Priscilla, who was wondering over the lost porch key, first vowing her to eternal secrecy, or, at all events, until it should be revealed whether or not Miss Green would feel it her duty to report the affair. They might have spared themselves a great deal of wonder and a little worry had they known that Miss Green, after due deliberation in the small hours of the morning, had decided that this was not a case for report. However, she had not decided at the same time that implicit trust might be placed in this somewhat unusual girl from Wyoming. She was still disturbed, and somewhat suspicious, as she recalled the events of the evening before, and felt that Virginia would “bear watching.”

Breakfast that Saturday morning was a painfully lugubrious meal. To begin with, every one was late; and Miss Green’s frigid manner really did not need the added coolness which she invariably bestowed upon late comers. Imogene did not appear, sending a headache as an excuse, and Vivian arrived, red-eyed from weeping, and minus a neck-tie. Mary and Anne were unusually silent, Lucile audibly wished for the “Continental Breakfast,” and Dorothy openly snubbed Virginia, who hoped, perhaps not tactfully, but certainly genuinely, that Imogene was not ill. Priscilla and Virginia had come in late, but in good spirits, having just finished laughing over Miss Green’s curl-papers. However, their good spirits waned in this atmosphere, only enlivened by Miss Wallace’s futile attempt at conversation. Moreover, Miss Green felt Virginia’s gayety very inappropriate under the circumstances, and apparently considered it her duty to extend toward her a cool reserve.

Poor Virginia, who upon awaking had decided to try to forget all the discomfort of the evening before and be happy again, felt her resolution impossible of fulfillment in this atmosphere; and by the time breakfast was over (be assured it was a short repast) was as discouraged and homesick as the night before. She declined Mary’s and Anne’s invitation to walk with them and the sad-eyed Vivian to the village after Saturday morning’s house-cleaning; refused to play tennis with Priscilla and the Blackmore twins (two jolly girls from Hathaway); quite enraged Dorothy by discovering her and Imogene in secret conversation, when she went to find her sweater which Lucile had borrowed; and at last, completely discouraged, and sick of everything, wandered off down the hill by herself, pretending not to hear some girls from King Cottage, who called to her to wait.

On the way she met the postman, who handed her three letters. She stuffed them in her pocket; and then, for fear of being followed by the King girls, hurried into the woods by a short cut she had already discovered, and found her way to the little gray stone chapel. She opened the door and went in, but it seemed cold and damp inside, and she came out again into the sunshine.

Here she was practically sure of being undisturbed, for the girls did not often visit St. Helen’s Retreat on Saturday morning. She sat down on the stone steps and listened to the wind in the pine trees, which completely surrounded the little chapel. Shafts of sunlight fell through the branches upon the brown needles beneath. In among the tangled thickets beyond the trees, the birds were gathering to go southward. They seemed in a great bustle of preparation. Virginia spied thrushes and tow-hees, brown thrashers and robins in great numbers; also many bluebirds, whose color was not so brilliant as that of their mountain bluebird at home. The English sparrows, however, were undisturbed by thoughts of moving, and chattered about the eaves of the Retreat, quite lazy and content.

At any other time Virginia would have watched the birds with eager interest, creeping through the thickets to observe them, for she was a real little student of their ways, and loved them dearly. But to-day the world was wrong, and birds were just birds, she told herself,—nothing more! Besides, she had been treated unjustly and unfairly, and she had a good cause for feeling blue. No one could blame her—not even Donald, whose words kept coming to her. She wished Don had never said them—they bothered her!

She drew her letters from her pocket. In a way, she hated to read them, she said to herself, because they would make her more homesick. But in a very short time curiosity overcame her, and she began to open them eagerly. Two were from her father and Don, the other from Aunt Lou in California. She read Aunt Lou’s first—saving the best for the last. Aunt Lou was glad to hear such pleasing reports both from those in Vermont, and from Miss King. From Grandmother Webster she had been convinced that Colonel Standish was a gentleman though she would again warn Virginia that one could not be too careful. She knew that St. Helen’s and her experiences there would surely be the making of Virginia, etc., etc.

Virginia folded the letter. In a way she could not help feeling glad that her grandmother and Aunt Nan, and especially Miss King, were pleased with her. Still, if Miss Green told, would Miss King understand? But it was of no use to worry, and it was in a little better humor that she opened Donald’s letter.

He had missed her, he said. Everything had seemed lost without her. It was no fun riding alone, and he had been glad when October came, and he had gone to Colorado. He liked it much better than the East. The fellows were more his sort, and they rode a lot; but not one of them could ride better than she.

“I’m mighty glad,” the letter ended, “that Mary Williams is in your cottage. She’s a peach, isn’t she? Jack’s all right, too. He wrote me the other day that maybe he would come to Wyoming another summer. Wouldn’t it be great if Mary could visit you then? I’m glad you’ve got a good room-mate. Don’t forget though, you promised not to be a young lady in June!”

Before she opened her father’s letter, Virginia felt decidedly better. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if Mary could go to Wyoming with Jack? Maybe—of course, not probably, but maybe—Priscilla’s father might let her go, too. Dreams of glorious days in the mountains made her eyes shine. She was almost happy again.

Her father’s dear fat letter was supplemented by a laboriously written one from Jim, and a note—yes, actually a note from William. And William could write a good hand, without misspelling a word! Jim’s letter told her that the little colt was growing beautifully, and was the image of his mother; that he hadn’t much minded the branding; and that Joe sent his best regards and wished to say that the lump in the littlest collie’s throat had quite disappeared. His rheumatism got worse, he said, with the colder weather, and he read her books a lot for company. He closed by saying they all missed her worse every day, and by asking her for them all how she liked the saddle, and “how it set”?

William’s note told her that he should send by the next mail two sets of rattles, whose former owners he had killed the week before; and that he had already planted her garden with some perennials which he knew she would like. He would not tell her what they were, as he wanted to surprise her.

She read her father’s letter over and over again. It was filled with pride, for he, too, had received a letter from Miss King, and—what was stranger yet!—actually one from Grandmother Webster, telling of their pleasure in Virginia. He was glad every day that she was so happy at St. Helen’s. Were she often homesick, he would be troubled; but her happiness made his loneliness the less.

The fall threshing was over, he said, and the round-up and branding completed. The men were having a much-needed rest. William had not gone to town once since she left, and if he continued in his determination, she would not know him when she came home. Jim, he was sorry to tell her, seemed far from well. The Keiths were also finished with the hardest of the fall labor; and they had all decided to ride up the canyon the next Saturday “To-day,” thought Virginia—and camp for over Sunday, just for a change. How they wished she and Don were there to go along!

Virginia folded the letter and jumped to her feet. An idea had seized her, dispelling the few remaining blues, for to a nature like her own a new idea is often a cure-all. Why had she not thought of it before? She would ride to-day, just as they were doing at home. Not yet had she used her new saddle, but really there had been little opportunity. The days had been too filled with lessons and getting acquainted to allow much time for riding; and they had now become so short that it was impossible after supper. The first two Saturdays had been taken up—one by a tennis tournament, the other by the Senior and Junior basket-ball game—and this was only the third.

But to-day she would ride. She would hurry home, learn her lessons—yes, she even thought she might learn her Latin—and then after luncheon have the man from the village stable bring up the horse he had recommended at a previous interview.

The atmosphere at luncheon was less chilled. Mary, Anne, and Vivian brought from the village the glad tidings that the “Forget-me-not” would be open all winter, and serve hot chocolate and cakes instead of sundaes; Priscilla and Lucile had won four sets from the Blackmore twins; and Virginia’s spirits were certainly improved. Only Imogene and Dorothy, who had been together all the morning, preserved, the one a haughty, the other an embarrassed, silence.

Virginia’s announcement that she was to ride brought forth great interest on the part of the girls, and solicitude on the part of Miss Green.

“You have permission, I presume, Virginia?”

“Oh, certainly, Miss Green. I’ve talked with Miss King all about it,” answered Virginia, striving to be polite. Later, when she heard Miss Green supplementing over the telephone her own directions to the stable-man, and cautioning him to bring the safest horse in the stable, she tried not to mind.

The horse arrived. To The Hermitage girls, and several from Hathaway, who had come over to watch the proceedings, and who, if they had ridden at all, had mounted nothing larger than ponies, he was a huge beast. They watched with great interest while Virginia herself threw across his broad back her shining new saddle, and tightened the girths.

“What a queer saddle!”

“What’s that thing in front, Virginia?”

“The saddle-horn.”

“Aren’t you afraid you’ll fall against it and hurt you?”

Virginia laughed. “Oh, no!”

“See the ‘V. H.’ on the brass, Anne. Some style to you, Virginia!”

“What’s the horse’s name, Mr. Hanly?” asked Virginia, preparing to mount.

“Napoleon Bonaparte.”

The girls laughed. Virginia swung herself into the saddle. To the admiring girls it seemed as though she had not touched the stirrup at all. She gathered her reins in one hand.

“Remember, you’re to try him, Priscilla, when I get back,” she called, riding away.

From one of the lower windows of the Hermitage, some, one cleared her throat.

“Use extreme caution, Virginia,” some one called, but Virginia was already out of hearing.

She had intended to ride down to the gate-posts, and then farther out into the country on the road which led away from Hillcrest. But by the time she came in sight of the stone posts she had quite decidedly changed her mind. Napoleon Bonaparte was hopeless! If he had not so annoyed her she might have laughed at his combination of gaits. His trot was torture; and it was only by the utmost urging that one could prevail upon him to canter. This urging, Virginia discovered to her surprise, was most effective when accomplished by yanking upon the reins, a proceeding which a Western horse would not have borne at all. His periods of willingness to canter were of short duration, for which the rider at the end of the period usually felt thankful. Moreover, he invariably stumbled when going down hill; and, to cap the climax, and add the finishing touch, he had the asthma, and, after a few moments of speed, sounded like a freight train.

The gate-posts reached, Virginia was resolved upon one thing! She could not ride Napoleon! She would ride to the village stable and see if a change were possible. She turned Napoleon’s heavy head, and rode on, wondering what Donald would say if he could see her steed, and greatly hoping that the village stable contained some improvement.

Mr. Hanly, who had driven down with the mail-carrier just ahead of her, met her at the stable door.

“Anything the trouble, miss?”

Virginia for the moment ignored his question.

“Mr. Hanly, how old is Napoleon?”

Mr. Hanly calculated. “About eighteen, miss.”

“Eighteen!” cried Virginia. “Then I don’t wonder! Why, Mr. Hanly, he can’t go at all. He hasn’t a gait to his name! Besides, he wheezes terribly. Has he the asthma?”

Mr. Hanly explained that for years Napoleon had been afflicted with a chronic cold; but that he had been in his day a good saddle-horse, and safe.

“Oh, he’s perfectly safe, Mr. Hanly! He’s too safe! But, you see, I’ve ridden all my life, and I can’t ride him. I really can’t! Haven’t you something else?”

Mr. Hanly considered. Yes, he had a saddle-horse belonging to a Hillcrest gentleman, who was away at present, but who had left word that his horse might be exercised. Still, he would hardly venture to saddle him for Virginia. He was safe enough, but inclined to take the bit in his teeth. No, he would not dare to allow her to have him. Still, she might look at him if she liked.

Virginia swung herself off Napoleon, and went in the stable to view the horse described. He was assuredly not in the same class as Napoleon. She knew by his build that he was a good saddle-horse. She must have him, she thought to herself. Fifteen minutes later, the persuaded, if not convinced, Mr. Hanly was somewhat dubiously removing the saddle from poor, perspiring Napoleon, and strapping it, with Virginia’s help, on the back of the black horse.

In another moment Virginia was up and away, leaving Mr. Hanly, who was watching her, somewhat reassured in the doorway.

This was something like riding, she told herself, as she cantered along the country road. The black horse, though nothing like her own Pedro, was still a good horse. He could even singlefoot, and did not have the asthma.

She rode miles into the country beyond St. Helen’s. The afternoon was perfect—one of those autumn afternoons when the summer lingers, loath to go; when the leaves drift slowly down, and the air is filled with an unseen chorus; and when all about an Unseen Presence makes itself felt, and causes one to feel in harmony with the God of the Out-of-doors.

Virginia’s cheeks were rosy red; her hair was flying in the wind, for she had lost her ribbon, and had long since stuffed her cap in her pocket; her eyes were glowing with happiness. She reached the Five Mile Crossways and turned back toward home. Then the black horse showed his paces. He fairly flew over the road, Virginia delighting in his every motion. One mile—two—three—he galloped furiously. They were within a mile of St. Helen’s. Virginia sought to quiet him, but he was on the homeward way, and he knew it. They rounded a curve, still on the gallop, when some rods ahead, Virginia espied a lone figure in a gray shawl. It was Miss Green. Virginia strove with all her might to pull the black horse into a walk so that she might speak, but he did not choose to walk; and it was with a considerably lessened, but, to the startled Miss Green, furious gallop that they passed, Virginia waving her hand as her only means of salutation. She heard Miss Green’s peremptory and horrified command for her to stop, but she could not heed it. Her mind was at that time completely occupied with wondering if the horse would willingly turn into the avenue leading to St. Helen’s. Fortunately he did, perhaps imagining it for a new entrance to his stable, and Virginia disappeared from sight among the pines.