During the busy week that followed, Blanche Shirly showed small enthusiasm for the joyous outdoor life in which the Equitable Eight reveled. She moped about the cottage, stolidly refusing to join the gay bathing parties that usually heralded the beginning of the long pleasure-filled days. She accompanied the Equitable Eight and Miss Drexal on the several excursions into the woods, but exerted little effort to gain the honors she still lacked to make her a Wood Gatherer. It had not taken her companions long to realize that, for some unknown reason, Blanche was sulking. Not daring to exhibit her open dislike toward Ruth, she entered the seven others in her black books and treated them all with a lofty indifference bordering on disdain.
It may be set down to their credit that they good-naturedly ignored her sullenness, and tried so far as they could to interest her in their daily round of fun. As Sarah had confidentially remarked to Jane, “We expected Blanche would act like this, and now you see we haven’t been disappointed.”
Ruth alone knew the true cause of Blanche’s moroseness. On the afternoon following their talk, the latter had coldly informed her that the promised letter had been written and delivered to the postman of the Rural Free Delivery Route, who brought the mail each morning. Since then little conversation had passed between them. Finding her friendly overtures coolly rebuffed, Ruth was careful to treat Blanche exactly as though nothing had happened, when in the presence of the others. Aside from that, she prudently let her alone. She did not wish her companions to discover that she was the real object of Blanche’s animosity. She was afraid it might lead to pointed questions. Refusal to answer them would be quite as embarrassing as to do so. She was earnestly trying to protect Blanche from the displeasure of her own friends, whom she felt would instinctively resent any churlish treatment of herself on Blanche’s part.
Naturally straightforward, even kindly pretense came hard for Ruth. There were times when she heartily wished she had not made the unlucky discovery. Again she was glad of it. She was convinced, however, that she had done right in keeping it a secret. Nevertheless the strain irked her. It took its toll of her usual zest for enjoyment. More than once, she reflected resentfully that it was hardly fair in Blanche not to meet her halfway. The end of the week saw the breach between the two steadily widening through no fault of Ruth’s. Saturday morning’s mail had brought Blanche a scathing letter from an indignant young man, who accused her of the double crime of not knowing her own mind and spoiling his summer.
She had anticipated some such reply and it made her very angry. She promptly retaliated with an equally scathing letter to him, in which she expressed herself as thankful to have found out his true character in time and hoped she would never see him again. All of which proved conclusively that Blanche was merely a very foolish young girl. In consequence, she was particularly thorny all day, and so far forgot caution as to fling several ill-natured remarks directly at Ruth, whom she could not forgive for having “pried into her affairs.”
“What ails Blanche Shirly, anyway?” asked Jane Pellew disgustedly of Betty and Anne as the three girls met in their room, preparatory to going downstairs to dinner. “Did you hear her snap at Ruth when we were out on the veranda this afternoon? After all the trouble Ruth has taken for her, too!”
“Yes, I noticed it.” Betty frowned. “Ruth didn’t seem to mind, though. Blanche has hardly treated any of us civilly, of late. I suppose she doesn’t care much for our way of doing things. She certainly doesn’t seem interested in Camp Fire work.”
“Then why did she come up here?” demanded Jane tartly. “She makes me tired. She might better have gone with her mother to the sanatorium. She’s a regular wet-blanket.”
“Give her time, Janie,” smiled Anne, unconsciously repeating Ruth’s own words. “You can’t expect her to see things as we do all in a minute. We’ve just got to keep on pretending we don’t notice her glum looks. It’s—well—it’s a kind of experiment. If it turns out well in the end, think how glad we’ll all be! Sooner or later, something will happen to make Blanche wake up.”
“That’s what Ruth says, too, but I don’t agree with either of you,” retorted Jane. “It’s awfully aggravating when one person in a jolly crowd like ours isn’t with us in our fun. If Blanche keeps on sulking as she has, I’ll tell her what I think of her. See if I don’t!”
“You mustn’t.” Betty shook a positive head. “Ruth wouldn’t like it. Do as Anne says and pay no attention to Blanche’s moods. You know how she’s always acted at Hillside. She and Jeanette Hayes are chums, yet they were on bad terms half the time last year.”
“Thank goodness we’ve been spared Jeanette, at least,” grumbled Jane. “There!” she continued, with a final pat to her fluffy brown locks. “I’m ready for dinner. I’m going down to the veranda. See you later.”
Running lightly down the stairs, Jane passed out to the veranda.
“Where’s everybody?” was her question as she spied Frances comfortably ensconced in the big porch swing.
“Why ask for ‘everybody’ when I am here?” counter-questioned Frances blandly.
Jane elevated her nose, then giggled. Advancing upon the swing with intent to seat herself beside Frances, her eyes lighted upon a strange figure just leaving the road and about to cross the lawn.
“Oh!” she ejaculated in a half-frightened tone, and turning, fled into the house.
Frances’ first inclination was to do likewise. Then she laughed. Slipping from the swing, she walked sedately forward to greet the newcomer, who had now reached the steps. Having been brought up on a ranch, she was quite accustomed to the sight of Indians. She immediately recognized the caller as an unusually fine specimen. At least six feet tall, with dark, piercing eyes and high cheek bones, his long black hair hanging in two braids over his shoulders, he looked every inch a warrior. Unlike the majority of Indians she had seen, his attire differed from theirs in that he still clung to the fringed deerskin leggings. These, together with his long black braids and a rifle slung across one shoulder, gave him the picturesqueness of the red man of earlier days.
“How do you do?” greeted Frances affably. “I am sure you must be Blue Wolf!”
“How do,” grunted the caller, surveying Frances stolidly. “Me Blue Wolf.”
“Come up on the veranda and sit down,” she invited. “Miss Drexal has been expecting you. Excuse me while I find her. She will be so pleased to see you.”
“Thank!” commented Blue Wolf unemotionally. Though he accepted the invitation onto the veranda, he remained standing, the picture of stoical indifference.
Stifling the chuckle that bubbled to her lips, Frances disappeared into the house in search of Miss Drexal. She bumped squarely against her in the hall, for Jane had already fled to the living room with the dire news that a “regular Indian war chief was coming straight for the house!”
“It’s Blue Wolf!” gasped Frances.
“I thought as much.” Miss Drexal smilingly stepped to the door and onto the veranda. “Why, how do you do, Blue Wolf?”
The Guardian’s voice had a friendly note as she offered her hand to her caller.
A swift gleam of pleasure shot into the Indian’s piercing eyes. “How do,” he returned. Setting his rifle carefully against the porch rail, he gravely shook hands. “You well?”
“Very well, indeed, th............