The Colonial Hotel that evening looked such a haven of rest to tired wanderers, that as soon as it was settled that they could get rooms Mrs. Nixon and Mrs. Bruce were able to smile on each other again.

The mountain lake lay calm in the waning light, and strings of fish being brought in caused excitement among the men.

“One thing you must do, Irving,” said Mrs. Bruce, looking graciously upon Helen, “is to take Miss Maynard to that place where you stand on shore and catch trout, and then whisk it right over into a boiling spring and cook it before you take it off the hook.”

“Miss Maynard has only to command me,” rejoined Irving.

“I am going fishing with Mr. Derwent,” said Helen. So subtle were the changes in the mental atmosphere of the last few days, so complete the step from subserviency to dominance, that any exhibition of coquetry with the two young men would have been considered legitimate by their natural guardians. It was the absence of all archness in the girl that concerned Mrs. Nixon, and the quiet declaration just made disturbed her.

She secured her son’s attention.

“You surely won’t oblige your uncle Henry to act as cavalier to a young girl,” she said.

“What?” asked Robert. “Oh, you mean the fishing.” He laughed with a mischievous flash of the eyes which brought color into his mother’s cheeks. “Afraid she’ll fish for him as well as with him, eh? Well, I think perhaps you have raison.”

“Robert, why are you such a tease? I wish you would choose a time when I am not so nervous and tired. I’ve never thought of such a thing, foolish boy!”

“I told you to count ten before you asked her to live with us.”

“Don’t you like her, dear?”

“Yes, I think she’s good stuff; but—you know what I told you. If she comes to live with us, she’ll run the ranch. You hear me. I don’t care to have anybody pull my wires. When I hop, I want it to be from my own pure lightness of heart.”

Mrs. Nixon looked thoughtful. “I intend to count ten, Robert. I told you that a month at the Fairport Inn would reveal a great deal.”

“I think it will,” agreed Robert dryly.

“Meanwhile,” continued Mrs. Nixon with some asperity, “you can either leave her entirely to Irving Bruce or you can do your part toward entertaining her.”

Robert threw an arm around his mother’s shoulders and gave her a squeeze which ruffled her dignity into a heap.

“You’re no wire-puller, honey,” he said. “Better leave it alone.”

Mrs. Nixon wriggled herself free.

“Mrs. Bruce is so conceited about her stepson,” she said warmly, “that I really have some feeling about it, Robert. I confess it frankly.”

“Well, mamma dear, they shouldn’t tease her! As I’ve spent the whole day with Miss Maynard, you should be satisfied with the proof of your son’s fascinations. She might have dived off the driver’s seat into Brute’s arms, and she didn’t do it. Be comforted.”

“I know Mrs. Bruce will make Irving take her to see the bears after supper. You watch! And you might just as well do it yourself.”

“Oh no,” Robert shook his head. “I’d rather be free to climb a tree. Speaking of supper, come; and talk loudly, please, while I take my first mouthful, so the guests won’t hear it fall.”

Mrs. Nixon sighed and went with him.

When the party rose from the table there was a general movement to the back of the hotel to view the bears.

Mrs. Bruce, quite restored by supper and the prospect of a night’s rest, held Betsy’s arm as a sign to Irving that he was at liberty.

He and Robert sauntered on together, talking of the morrow’s fishing, and the others followed.

Mr. Derwent was thoughtful. His sister leaned on his arm and Helen walked on his other side.

“So you were at school with Miss Vincent?” he said.

“Yes; a short time. It seems Mrs. Bruce gave her a short course.”

The girl’s tone was cool; but Mrs. Nixon noted, as she had done before, the cleverness with which she conveyed her distinct words, and the ease with which her brother understood.

“Didn’t you like her very much?”

“No, not especially. I had no occasion to know her well.”

“H’m! She seemed to me so appealing. Very modest and engaging.”

“I dare say she is,” returned Helen carelessly. “Oh, there! See? That black bear and her cubs!”

For the following fifteen minutes the party watched the bears. They heard the mother give the cubs warning under suspicion of a cinnamon bear’s approach, and saw the babies scamper fleetly up a tree, followed by mamma; then, presently reassured, the whole family came down and proceeded with their meal.

Wires were stretched to prevent the human guests from trespassing beyond certain limits, and soldiers were on duty, for it is difficult to believe that the animals are not tame, and the curious would approach them.

While the party watched, the cinnamon bear did appear, headed for the garbage-heap, and the house of black bear took to the woods in a body. Then came a grizzly, and the conquering cinnamon unostentatiously disappeared.

“It is very interesting,” wailed Mrs. Bruce, “but why don’t the management provide clothespins for the guests’ noses?”

Robert had gravitated to Helen’s side.

“When we get across the Styx,” he murmured, “I’m going to follow that woman up. I’m as sure as if I’d seen it, that her halo won’t fit.”

“And Mr. Bruce is so nice to her!” said Helen.

There was gayety that night in the hotel office. An orchestra played, and there was dancing. Both the young men danced with Helen, then Irving wandered off to see about fishing-tackle, and Robert floated on with the girl, whose cheeks glowed.

“How well they dance together!” said Mrs. Nixon to Mrs. Bruce complacently.

“Yes,” returned the latter. “Mr. Nixon being shorter is a better height for her than Irving.”

“Robert is quite tall enough,” said Mrs. Nixon.

“Yes, for Miss Maynard,” returned Mrs. Bruce.

Neither of them had slept as yet, and their sitting together at all had a savor of reckless daring.

Betsy was deeply engaged at the counter where pictures and postal-cards were sold.

“I don’t know,” she thought, “as it would be anything out of the way if I should get that whole set o’ postal cards and send ’em to Hiram. Poor soul, he can’t travel any, and they’d sort o’ illustrate my talk if I ever told him anything about the trip.”

As she meditated thus, Betsy’s slow color rose, for her New England conscience remarked rather tartly that this plan for giving pleasure to her patient admirer was not without ulterior motives, and pretense was useless.

“Don’t I know,” she mused defensively, “that it would just make Hiram’s life over to have the child in his house? Old Mrs. Bachelder would like nothin’ better than to move all her traps over instead of comin’ by the day.”

All of which goes to show that Clever Betsy’s wits were still busy with Rosalie’s problem, and that she desired to settle it without committing herself to a surrender to the able seaman.

“As for postal cards, I guess I wouldn’t have grudged Hiram that much pleasure if Rosalie Vincent had never come to the Yellowstone; and he and I—I mean he and Rosalie can enjoy lookin’ at ’em evenin’s.”

Upon which, with conscious innocence and a withering disregard of the presumptuous inner voice, Betsy put down her money and took the set of cards in its neat case.

As she did so, Mr. Derwent sauntered up to the stand; the smile which always rested more in his eyes than on his lips was evident as he noticed Betsy’s concentrated interest.

“Finding some pretty things?” he asked.

She nodded vigorously. Mr. Derwent would have been surprised to know how constantly his image had held possession of this woman’s thoughts since yesterday afternoon.

Hiram Salter was a bird in the bush, and no matter how wary, Betsy felt that she could lure him—yes, upstart conscience, even without the aid of postal cards!—to come to her and eat out of her hand; but Mr. Derwent was the bird already in that hand so far as physical neighborhood was concerned. She had wondered through many hours how she could compass a conversation with the deaf gentleman which others should not overhear.

Betsy looked wildly around for a likely spot for a vociferous tÊte-À-tÊte. There was a corridor which ran out of the large office in each direction, and from which opened the first-floor bedrooms.

Would the elegant Mr. Derwent think she was quite mad if she endeavored to lead him down one of these, and was there a chance of her accomplishing the move without the observation of the two tabby-cats? Yes, as a truthful biographer I must admit that this was the title bestowed by Rosalie’s champion upon two complacent ladies since the playing of the Riverside Geyser yesterday afternoon.

Mr. Derwent’s voice interrupted her swift thoughts.

“What have you been finding that is pretty? Is there anything here I ought to get?”

Betsy repeated her vigorous nodding and addressed the saleswoman.

“Let me see that water-color of the canyon again, please.”

“A water-color, eh?” said Mr. Derwent; then as Betsy looked at him in surprise, he smiled again.

“These capricious ears of mine like a racket,” he said. “The more the orchestra and the clatter of voices and feet deafen you, the more they make me hear. That’s pretty, that’s very pretty.”

The clerk had produced the picture, and Mr. Derwent gazed upon the waterfall, the spray dashing up its golden cliffs; and Betsy gazed eagerly at him. He could hear her. That was more exciting than the prospect of seeing on the morrow this climax of beauty in the great Park.

“We ought not to have looked at this until after we had visited the canyon,” suggested Mr. Derwent. “Paint is cheap, and disappointments are bitter.”

“The picture’s just beautiful, though,” said Betsy.

“And not a bit too bright,” declared the clerk. “There couldn’t any picture do justice to it.”

“You like it, do you, Miss Foster? Did you buy one?”

“No, sir. I’ve got a postal of it, though, in this set of cards.”

“I will take this,” said Mr. Derwent to the clerk, passing her the water-color.

While the picture was being put into its envelope, and the clerk was making the change, Betsy’s wits were working fast. How, how to make the most of this golden opportunity! She shrank from the appearance of begging even for the winning girl she had left behind her. It did not help matters nor lessen her embarrassment to have her companion hand her the envelope containing the water-color.

“With my compliments, Miss Foster,” he said with a bow.

“For me!” burst forth Betsy, flushing under her mingled emotions.

“A souvenir,” he returned. “It is really pretty.”

“Oh, it’s a gem, and I do thank you!” exclaimed Betsy. “Oh dear, how can I now!” was her mental moan. “It’s exactly like sayin’ one good turn deserves another. I hate to be those kind o’ folks that give ’em an inch and they’ll take an ell.”

While she hesitated, fearing every moment that the prize would turn and saunter back to his people, Mr. Derwent lingered.

“I have been very glad,” he said, regarding Betsy’s narrow, excited face, “of your kindness to the little Miss Vincent.”

Now Rosalie was not little. She was an upstanding daughter of the gods, meriting their trite description; and the adjective warmed Betsy’s heart and filled her with courage. That, and the tone of the words, gave her a welcome cue. She looked wistfully into the kind eyes.

“It’s one o’ the hardest things I’ve ever done to leave Rosalie at that inn,” she said.

“I didn’t like it either,” responded her companion quietly. “Let us come over in this corner and talk a bit.”

Betsy followed, an inward pÆan of thanksgiving going up from her good heart.

Irving was still talking fishing-tackle at a desk at the opposite end of the office. Miss Maynard was frisking in a two-step with Robert, and the two mothers chaperoned her gravely and with increasing sleepiness, while the orchestra rang its rhythmic changes. Betsy, standing a little at one side of the crowd, told again the story of Rosalie’s life to an attentive listener, who in his turn recounted to her certain circumstances of the Vincent losses.

“And it has come to this, has it,” said Mr. Derwent, “that this young girl hasn’t a friend in the world except you and me?”

“That’s it,” responded Betsy promptly. “That is—” she added hurriedly—“we’re the only safe ones she’s got.”

“How is that?” Mr. Derwent smiled leniently. “A lover? I shouldn’t wonder at that.”

“Oh, no, not a lover. I should hope not! Good gracious!”

Betsy’s manner and precipitate speech made Mr. Derwent smile again.

“You don’t mean that big boy in our stage with two mothers, neither of whom owns him?”

Betsy’s wandering eyes looked so desperately embarrassed that the speaker could not forbear pressing her a little.

“Two mothers; one of whom he loves and one who loves him.”

Miss Foster started. “Oh, Mr. Derwent,” she gasped, and now her eyes met his in fright.

“Very well,” he said, “whoever it is, I think we shall be equal to the case without his help. They tell me you’re called Clever Betsy. Now let’s see whether you’re well-named. Let’s talk ways and means a little.”

And Betsy did talk: talk as she had seldom done since Irving’s mother went to sleep one night in her arms.

She told Mr. Derwent of a friend of her childhood, one Hiram Salter, and laid bare her designs on that mariner’s hearth and home.

Mr. Derwent listened, nodding sometimes, and when she had finished, he spoke.

“And this talent of Rosalie’s,—this elocutionary business? Would there be any field for her perhaps in Fairport, as a teacher?”

Betsy looked dubious. “Maybe. It’s a pretty well-to-do village all times o’ year; but that could come afterward. If I just once knew she was safe in a home! She could likely get into a school somewhere later.”

“Well-to-do, you say,” repeated Mr. Derwent thoughtfully. “Do the people there entertain? Parlor entertainments pay pretty well.”

“No,” replied Betsy slowly, fixing her interlocutor with a gaze which little by little seemed to see beyond him. “Folks there wouldn’t think they could—spend money—that way—”

Her voice trailed off and there was a silent space, while Mr. Derwent wondered at her altered expression. Suddenly her gaze focused on him again and her hard hands clasped the water-color against her breast. “Mr. Derwent, I’ve got an idea!” she said in a changed tone.

“Of course you have,” he replied encouragingly. “It’s a peculiarity of clever people.”

“Let me tell you what I’ve thought;” and Betsy proceeded to do so with eagerness.

“I believe it would work,” returned Mr. Derwent thoughtfully, when she had finished. “Follow that up, Betsy. May I call you Betsy?”

“Of course, Mr. Derwent. I ain’t anything else; and if you knew how I felt towards you for befriendin’ Rosalie, you’d know that you might call me anything.” Bright tears glistened in the good gray eyes.

“The first thing to do, then, is to write Rosalie a letter. Come, we’ll do it now,” he answered. “I must talk with her. We will have her come to the canyon.”