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.

“Some rods ahead, Virginia espied a lone figure in agray shawl.”