Uncle Joe came around to the front veranda, where Mr. Ashe sat looking rather lonely. “Any news from Boston and vicinity in that there mail?” he asked.

Mr. Ashe handed him Blue Bonnet’s latest letter.

“Hm, she don’t run much to length, does she?” Uncle Joe commented. “So she’s going to school—and wishes schoolrooms were built without walls. Aunt Lucinda’s very kind, but Grandmother’s a darling. My lady can get a lot of meaning into a few words, can’t she, Cliff?”

But it was the postscript which gave Uncle Joe most delight.

“I suppose,” Blue Bonnet had written, “it’s on account of everything being so different that I keep thinking of the ranch. Anyhow, I think you might write me more about it, Uncle Cliff.”

“So, my lady!” Uncle Joe chuckled.

“She seems fairly contented,” Mr. Ashe said.

Uncle Joe grunted something unintelligible.

“At least, she doesn’t say anything about wanting to come back,” Mr. Ashe went on.

“I’ve heard before that the whole point of a69 woman’s letter was pretty apt to lay in the postscript,” Uncle Joe remarked; “and I reckon this ain’t any exception to the rule. She’s a spunky little piece, Blue Bonnet is. Of course, she ain’t going to say she wants to come back—leastways, not yet.”

Meanwhile, the “spunky little piece” was curled up comfortably in a big armchair at one side of the fireplace in the Trent library. Opposite her sat Alec, flushed and hoarse from a cold, but otherwise quite contented. Between the two, Bob, Ben, and Solomon sprawled in lazy comfort.

Outside, the September wind drove a fierce rain against the windows, making the warmth and brightness within doubly pleasant.

The Trent household, being, with the exception of Norah, a purely masculine establishment, was in Blue Bonnet’s eyes a delightful place. “It’s so nice and untidyish,” she said now, looking about the pleasantly littered room.

“Thanks,” Alec laughed.

“There’s never any dust over at our place.” Blue Bonnet leaned forward to poke one of the great glowing logs. “It’s perfectly lovely to have a whole afternoon free; but I earned it this morning—I behaved like an angel of light—and then as soon as dinner was over, before Grandmother had gone upstairs, I asked if I might come here and do my duty70 towards my neighbor this afternoon. I’m awfully glad Aunt Lucinda approves of you, Alec.”

“So am I.”

“It really was very good of her to say yes, seeing what disgrace I got into yesterday afternoon.”

Alec looked interested. “Go on,” he said.

Blue Bonnet’s eyes were dancing. “Well,” she began, “yesterday was ‘tea day.’”

“Was what?”

“‘Tea day,’” Blue Bonnet repeated. “You see, every one of those six girls was bound to ask me back in turn, and return; they’re all over now but one. At first, it was fun—the going, you know; and then,” Blue Bonnet leaned forward confidentially, “it got kind of monotonous. There were just the same girls, and we did the same things. Then, yesterday morning, Amanda’s invitation came for next Friday. Alec, after I got started yesterday afternoon, I couldn’t for the life of me remember whether it was Amanda’s turn this week and Debby’s next, or Debby’s this time and Amanda’s next. Amanda’s house came first and I saw Sarah going up the steps, so I turned in there. I’d reasoned it out by that time that it was Amanda’s turn—Amanda’s the sort of girl to come tagging along towards the end. Mrs. Parker came to the door. I thought she seemed rather surprised; she didn’t look very partified. I said I hoped I wasn’t too early.71 She asked me into the parlor, and that didn’t look very partified either. Pretty soon Sarah came down with Amanda, and they both had their hats on! Alec, if I’d only had sense enough to keep still!—but I just plumped down on the sofa and began to laugh. All I could think of was that I was too early—a whole week too early!”

Alec leaned back, shaking with laughter. “Elizabeth,” he declared, “you’re better than a tonic!”

“The worst of it was,” Blue Bonnet said, “that I tried to explain. It seemed awfully funny to me at the time; but when I told about it at home, Aunt Lucinda couldn’t see anything funny in it. There was a laugh in Grandmother’s eyes, though,—only she didn’t mean me to see it.”

Alec rose. “I think Norah’s gone upstairs now; suppose we go make some of that pinochie you’ve been talking about?”

They found the kitchen empty. Alec went down cellar for the nuts, first showing Blue Bonnet where the brown sugar, butter, and cream were kept.

“I haven’t made candy before since I came East,” Blue Bonnet said, as the pleasant odor of the melting sugar and butter filled the kitchen.

“I daresay there’s a lot of things you used to do you haven’t been doing,” Alec answered.

“And some I have been—that I used not to do on the ranch. Alec, do you like school?”

“I don’t mind it.”

72 “Do you suppose anyone really likes it?”

“Sure.”

“Sarah says she does—Sarah always does seem to like doing disagreeable things. Kitty says she has a perfect talent for making herself uncomfortable.”

“Kitty’s talent lies more in the direction of making other people uncomfortable,” Alec laughed.

“I like Kitty!”

“So do I.”

“It isn’t the lessons I mind,” Blue Bonnet said, stirring her candy slowly; “but it’s horrid staying indoors so much. At home I used to study out-of-doors in fine weather.”

By the time the candy was done, Norah had come down again, grumbling good-naturedly over their invasion of her kitchen.

“You’ll stay to supper, Elizabeth?” Alec asked, as they took the candy out to the shed to cool; and Blue Bonnet accepted the invitation as frankly as she would have given it in like case.

“Grandfather’s in Boston,” Alec said. “I say, Norah’ll make us flapjacks. And you’ll let us have them out here, won’t you, Norah?—where we can have them right hot from the griddle.”

“In the kitchen, Master Alec?” Norah exclaimed.

“It’ll be lovely,” Blue Bonnet declared; “I’ve always wanted to eat in a kitchen—like I’ve read about doing.”

73 Alec drew forward a small round table. “I used always to have my supper at this,” he said, “before I got big enough to dine with Grandfather.”

Blue Bonnet was looking on with interested eyes; watching Norah stir up the batter, and Alec, as he came and went from the dining-room, bringing the dishes and old-fashioned silver syrup-pitcher.

“Oh, dear!” she cried suddenly. “There’s a knock—I feel it in my bones that it’s for me.”

“It’s Delia, Miss,” Norah said, opening the door; “she says as how Miss Clyde thinks you must’ve forgotten how late it is.”

“Look here, Elizabeth,” Alec told her, “you tell Delia to tell your aunt that you simply can’t come now—that the flapjacks are all ready.” And Blue Bonnet obeyed literally.

Supper over, she and Alec went back to the library; where Alec piled the logs high in the great fireplace, and drew the heavy crimson curtains, shutting out the night. He was whistling as he did so, and suddenly Blue Bonnet came toward him.

“Oh,” she cried, “do you know that?”

“Know what?”

“‘All the Blue Bonnets Are Over the Border’?”

By way of answer, Alec turned to the piano and struck a few chords; then, in spite of his hoarseness, he sang with considerable expression—
74
“‘March! March! Ettrick and Teviotdale!
Why, my lads, dinna ye march forward in order?
March! March! Eskdale and Liddesdale!
All the blue bonnets are over the border.’”

Blue Bonnet’s cheeks were glowing. “Now whistle it again,” she begged.

“Uncle Cliff used always to whistle it,” she explained, when Alec had done so. “That’s how I could tell he was coming at night. I would go to meet him as soon as I heard it.”

“But why did he always choose that tune?”

“Oh, I reckon he liked it. Alec, I wish you knew Uncle Cliff.”

“So do I. What is he like?”

“He’s big and strong and good, and he’s never cross with me.”

“Grandfather’s ‘big and strong and good, and he’s never cross with me.’ All the same, he’s terribly disappointed, and so am I.”

“Why?” Blue Bonnet asked.

“He wanted me to enter West Point. Grandfather’s a West Pointer.”

“And you can’t?”

“How could I pass?”

“You mean you’re not—?”

“Strong enough? Yes.”

“So you’re a disappointment, too,” Blue Bonnet said slowly; “but you can’t help it, and I—”

“What are you talking about?”

75 “Never mind. There, I think that’s Delia again. I’ll have to go this time.”

“I wish I could go over with you,” Alec said, as Blue Bonnet slipped into her mackintosh, drawing the hood over her head. “It’s been awfully jolly having you here. Wait, you’re going without your share of the candy.”

“I’ve had a lovely time,” Blue Bonnet said. “It’s been so delightfully different from all those other tea-parties.”

“At any rate, you didn’t get here ‘too early,’” Alec answered.

As she stopped in the entry at home to take off her cloak and rubbers, Blue Bonnet hoped that Aunt Lucinda was not going to be difficult. It had been such a pleasant afternoon.

But only Mrs. Clyde sat before the fire in the sitting-room; there was nothing equivocal in her smile of greeting.

“Were the flapjacks good?” she asked.

“I should think they were.” Blue Bonnet came to sit on the hearth-rug beside Grandmother; Aunt Lucinda disapproved of her sitting on the floor, but Grandmother never seemed to mind.

“I suppose there was maple-syrup, too?” Mrs. Clyde said.

“Rivers of it. And we had them in the kitchen; and, Grandmother, it was all perfectly delightful.”

76 Mrs. Clyde smiled comprehendingly. “Almost it makes one wish one were fifteen again, and could have flapjacks and maple-syrup for supper—in the kitchen.”

“Grandmother,” Blue Bonnet’s eyes were fixed on the softly glowing pine logs, “is a person to blame—for being afraid—when she can’t help it?”

“Afraid—of what, dear?”

“Doing something.”

“Something that ought to be done, Elizabeth?”

“I don’t think it really—ought to be done, Grandmother.”

“Then it isn’t a question of mere right, or wrong, dear?”

“I don’t think so, Grandmother.”

“Is it physical fear?”

“I—think so.”

“Who is the person, Elizabeth?”

“Me, Grandmother,” Blue Bonnet answered, with more frankness than grammar.

“You, Elizabeth!”

“Oh, dear! You’re just like Uncle Cliff! He said ‘afraid’ was an odd word for an Ashe to use.”

“And for a Clyde, Elizabeth.”

“I know! I reckon I’m a disgrace to the family; but I can’t help it, Grandmother.”

“Suppose you tell me what it is that you are77 afraid of, dear—and let me see what I think about that.”

“I can’t tell you, Grandmother.”

“Then how am I to help you?”

“You can’t—no one can.”

“Not even yourself?”

“Myself least of all, Grandmother.”

“Have you tried? And, dear, have you asked help?”

“No, Grandmother,” the girl answered slowly. “I—I don’t know why it had to come to me—I used not to be afraid of—anything.”

Mrs. Clyde smoothed the girl’s hair back from her flushed, troubled face. “If you would only tell me, dear.”

“I can’t,” Blue Bonnet rose; “I reckon I’ll go to bed now. Good-night, Grandmother. Where’s Aunt Lucinda?”

“Lying down; she has a bad headache. Good-night, Elizabeth.”

Upstairs before her aunt’s door, Blue Bonnet hesitated a moment; then she knocked softly.

“Come in,” Miss Clyde called.

“Grandmother told me you had a headache, Aunt Lucinda,” Blue Bonnet said; “I hope it’s better.”

“It will be by to-morrow. You have had a pleasant afternoon, Elizabeth?”

“Lovely, Aunt Lucinda; I staid to supper, you78 know. Alec is a very satisfactory sort of friend. Aunt Lucinda, don’t you think boys really do make more comfortable chums than girls—in the long run?”

“In your case, my dear, I would much prefer to see you making a companion of Sarah Blake. Alec is a very nice boy; but in his way, he is quite as undisciplined as you are yourself.”

“I reckon that’s why we took to each other right off, Aunt Lucinda.”

“My dear, that is not a remarkably elegant way in which to express your meaning.”

“Maybe not, Aunt Lucinda—but it expresses it all right.”

And Miss Clyde, not feeling equal for further discussion, let the matter drop for the time being.

Blue Bonnet ran hurriedly downstairs and out to where Kitty and Solomon were waiting for her in the garden. It was the Saturday after her tea with Alec, and the three were off for a long walk. Blue Bonnet had quite forgotten in these days that she hated walking.

They went out on the old turnpike, which stretched ahead of them, straight and level, for miles.

“Don’t you love Saturday afternoon, Kitty?” Blue Bonnet asked, throwing a stick for Solomon to chase.

79 “Pretty well.”

“And hate Monday morning?” Blue Bonnet added.

“I don’t think I do.”

“Kitty, what’s that little house ’way over there?” Blue Bonnet pointed to a low, weather-stained building far over to the left.

“That’s the Poor Farm,” Kitty answered.

“Why do you call it the ‘poor’ farm? I thought most of the land around here was pretty good?”

Kitty collapsed on to a big stone by the side of the road to laugh, and, as soon as she could, explain.

Blue Bonnet was much interested. “Let’s go there,” she suggested.

Kitty looked surprised. “Why should we? I don’t think I should like it.”

“Have you ever been?” Blue Bonnet asked.

“Certainly not.”

“Well, I’m going,” Blue Bonnet declared; “that’s the worst thing about you Woodford girls, you never want to do anything that you never have done.”

“We do too,” Kitty exclaimed; she got up and followed Blue Bonnet.

There were fences to climb and several wide fields to cross before they reached the narrow lane leading down to the bare, lonely old house, in which the town sheltered its few indigent poor.

80 An old man sitting at one end of the long piazza nodded a greeting to them.

“Good afternoon,” Blue Bonnet said, stopping.

“You come from Woodford?” the old man queried.

“Yes,” Blue Bonnet said, “we’ve been taking a walk; it’s a beautiful day for walking.”

“You be Doctor Clark’s daughter,” the man said, looking at Kitty; “I mind seeing you ride by with your father. What’s your name?” he turned to Blue Bonnet.

“Bl—Elizabeth Ashe.”

“She’s from Texas,” Kitty told him.

Into the old man’s faded eyes crept a look of wonder. “Texas! That do be a long ways off! More’n a day’s journey, I guess?”

“More than that,” Blue Bonnet laughed.

“Come on, Elizabeth,” Kitty urged in an undertone.

But Blue Bonnet lingered a moment; understanding, as Kitty did not, the little touch of interest their stopping had brought into the old man’s lonely day.

“That was Mr. Peters,” Kitty said, when at length Blue Bonnet had yielded to her repeated nudgings. “How could you stay so, Elizabeth?”

“I think he liked it. Kitty, mustn’t it be awful to be so old and—outside of everything?”

81 “He was outside of the house,” Kitty laughed. “What do you mean by everything?”

“I reckon you know all right,” Blue Bonnet answered.

Kitty glanced about her. “My, isn’t it the dreariest place!”

Blue Bonnet looked at the broad stretch of open fields, backed in the distance by a low range of hills. For the moment the sun had gone behind a cloud, and the fields lay gray and bleak in the sombre light. To Blue Bonnet, the broad, level stretch had an attraction all its own.

“I like it,” she said.

“Well, I don’t,” Kitty declared. “Do hurry, Elizabeth, we’re a long way from home.”

A little further up the lane, they met an old woman sitting on a broken-down bar of fencing, her arms full of golden-rod. To Kitty’s dismay, Blue Bonnet stopped again. “You like flowers, don’t you?” she said.

Across her sheaf of yellow blossoms the old woman smiled up at her. “Yes, deary, and these—they’re most as good as sunshine in a room.”

Whereupon Blue Bonnet, attracted by something in the old woman’s manner, sat down beside her. “Do you live around here?” she asked.

The wrinkled face inside the big calico sunbonnet quivered. “Me? I live back yonder,” the82 woman said, with a little nod in the direction of the poorhouse. “Where do you live?” she added hastily.

“Oh, I’m staying in Woodford,” Blue Bonnet answered.

“No, you’re not,” Kitty murmured impatiently; “you’re staying anywhere and everywhere out of it—that you can.”

“I ain’t been in to Woodford for quite a spell now,” the old woman said. “’Tain’t much use going to a place, where there ain’t anyone there going to be glad to see you.”

“Where are your folks?” Blue Bonnet asked sympathetically.

“Dead and gone, deary; dead and gone. Old Mrs. Carew, she was the last of ’em. She was second cousin to me—I’d been staying with her for quite a spell. When she died, seems like I didn’t have anywheres else to go.”

“Oh,” Kitty cried, “you’re Mrs. Prior!” She remembered the hot wave of indignation that had swept through Woodford over Mrs. Carew’s neglect to provide for her poor old relative.

“Yes, I’m Mrs. Prior,” the other answered. “It used to be a pretty well-thought-of name ’bout here—Prior.”

“If you had friends in Woodford, would you go to see them?” Blue Bonnet asked.

“Indeed I would, deary. It do get a bit lonesome,83 never going nowhere. And—it ain’t ’s if I hadn’t been used to things different.”

“Will you come and see me?” Blue Bonnet asked impetuously.

Mrs. Prior gasped. So did Kitty, though not from the same reason. Kitty was thinking of Miss Clyde.

“Elizabeth,” she said hurriedly, “we must go.”

But Blue Bonnet waited to lay a hand on one of the old woman’s workworn ones. “When will you come?” she asked.

“We—Wednesday’s the day, deary.”

“Then come next Wednesday—and to supper. Good-bye until then.”

“But, deary,” Mrs. Prior called after the two retreating figures, “you ain’t told me where to come to. Nor what your name is.”

Blue Bonnet laughed. “I’m Elizabeth Ashe; I’m staying with my grandmother, Mrs. Clyde. Do you know where the Clyde place is?”

Mrs. Prior drew herself up. The Clyde place! And she was invited there to supper!

“Well,” Kitty exclaimed the moment they were out of earshot, “whatever possessed you to go and do that, Elizabeth Ashe! A nice scrape you’ve got yourself into! What do you suppose your aunt will say?”

Blue Bonnet stopped short. “I never once thought of Aunt Lucinda!”