Blue Bonnet gathered up her belongings; ten minutes more and they would be in, the porter had told her.

Mr. Garner, her uncle’s friend, had brought her as far as New York; from there on she had travelled alone. Now that she was so near her journey’s end she almost wished she were not.

Aunt Lucinda was to meet her in Boston. Blue Bonnet gave her hair a smoothing touch or two and pulled on her gloves; then the porter came to brush her off, smiling sympathetically over her evident nervousness, and assuring her that Boston was “a right fine place.”

Very crowded, very confusing she thought it, during those first few moments. Inside the car, people were beginning to gather up bundles and wraps; outside, as the train drew into the great depot, pandemonium seemed the order of the day. Blue Bonnet felt a sudden, overwhelming desire to break away; to get somewhere—anywhere, where it was quiet.

And then she saw Aunt Lucinda coming towards her. She knew instinctively that it was Aunt Lucinda the moment she caught sight of the tall, well-dressed woman threading her way down the crowded aisle.

“This is Elizabeth?” she said, stopping before Blue Bonnet.

The girl answered nervously that she supposed so. “You see,” she added, quickly, flushing over the ridiculousness of her reply, “I’m not used to being called anything but Blue Bonnet.”

“Elizabeth, or Blue Bonnet, we are very glad you have come to us, my dear,” Miss Clyde answered, kissing her; “it must have seemed a long way.”

“Yes, Aunt Lucinda,” Blue Bonnet said. At that moment Texas seemed a very, very long way off, indeed. She followed her aunt down the aisle and out on to the busy platform, feeling curiously small and lonely.

During the short ride on the local train Blue Bonnet was very silent, but Miss Clyde thought her interested in the view from the car window and did not try to make conversation.

She was rather glad of the opportunity to study the slender, bright-faced girl opposite.

“How near everything is to everything else, Aunt Lucinda,” Blue Bonnet said at last.

Miss Clyde smiled. “We don’t run much to space here, Elizabeth. There, that is our last stop before Woodford. You will be glad to have your long journey really over.”

At Woodford the old family carriage was waiting. Denham, the coachman, smiled welcomingly at Blue Bonnet. “’Deed and I’m glad to see Miss Elizabeth’s girl,” he said.

Blue Bonnet smiled back in friendly fashion. “Did he know Mamma, Aunt Lucinda?” she asked, wonderingly.

“Denham has been with us for more than twenty years, Elizabeth,” Miss Clyde answered.

There were not many passengers for the sleepy little station. Blue Bonnet felt herself the object of interest for the group of loungers gathered about the platform.

To the girl the old tree-shaded village, with its air of quiet content, its one wide principal street, with pleasant by-ways straggling off at irregular intervals from it, was very attractive, and very interesting as well, when contrasted with the little bare prairie town at home. She quite enjoyed the slow, leisurely drive in the comfortable old carry-all; she could not imagine any one dashing up that sober quiet street. And when, at last, they turned into a broad, well-kept drive, and she caught sight, across the smooth stretch of green lawn, of the big white house, she drew a quick breath of content; it was all in such perfect keeping.

Miss Clyde saw the look in Blue Bonnet’s eyes and an answering smile showed in her own. “Your mother was very fond of the old place, Elizabeth,” she said; “we are very glad to have her daughter come home to it.”

On the steps Mrs. Clyde was waiting, and to her Blue Bonnet’s heart went out instantly.

“Ah, but you are like your mother, my dear!” Mrs. Clyde cried, holding the girl close. “It is very good of your uncle to spare you to us. I could hardly believe the good news when it came. But you are tired, dear; you shall go to your room at once.”

“I am tired,” Blue Bonnet said; she wondered why it was she wanted to cry. And why in this first moment of coming—coming home, Aunt Lucinda had called it—her thoughts kept going back to the home she had left.

She went with her aunt up the broad oak stairway and along the wide upper hall to a room at the lower end,—a big pleasant room,—the one that had been her mother’s. It was, indeed, a charming room, with its wide, cushioned window-seats, its deep, open fireplace, its pretty light furniture and delicate draperies. The windows looked off into orchard and garden, and, when Aunt Lucinda had gone downstairs again, Blue Bonnet went to kneel before the one overlooking the latter.

In a moment she had forgotten how tired and dusty she was; forgotten how far she had journeyed since the morning she said good-bye to Uncle Joe and old Benita and Don; had forgotten everything but the garden lying, half in shade, half in sunshine, below,—the big, rambling, old-fashioned garden, of which the one at home was a faint reproduction.

Beyond the garden was a tall row of trees, growing so closely together as to form a thick screen. Blue Bonnet wondered what was on the other side of that row? Did her grandmother’s land end on this side? Could there be neighbors so near?

She wondered a good deal about it as she freshened herself up for supper. Her trunk had not come yet, but she had a fresh white waist in her suit-case. Presently she came slowly along the hall and downstairs to where Mrs. Clyde was sitting in the broad entrance hall.

“It is very good to see a young person coming down those stairs again,” Mrs. Clyde said; “you come much more slowly than your mother used to, dear.”

Blue Bonnet smiled. “It seems odd to be going up and coming down stairs at all. At home it is all on one floor.” She went to stand by the open front door. Across the lawn and the broad road beyond, she caught glimpses of other big white houses, behind their sheltering trees.

“Oh,” she said, “if you only knew how delightful it seems to have real neighbors, Grandmother. At home our nearest neighbors were twenty miles away. I’ve been so hungry for people, and houses, and everything.”

The next morning Blue Bonnet made her first acquaintance among her new neighbors. She had gone out to see for herself what lay beyond that tall screen of trees. Nothing at all mysterious, she found; merely another broad green lawn centering itself about an old creeper-covered brick house. Following the path beside the trees, she came to a low picket-fence, over which ran a stile. Blue Bonnet sat down on the upper step to survey at leisure this next-door place; and then she saw that from midway across the lawn some one was surveying her,—a boy of about her own age.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Good morning,” Blue Bonnet answered. “Do you live here?”

“Yes.”

“It’s a very pretty place.”

The other turned to look back at the old house. “I suppose it is,” he admitted, “though I’ve never thought much about it.” He came nearer, whistling to a pair of fox-terrier puppies, who were worrying at something at the further end of the lawn. “Do you like dogs?” he asked.

“I adore them,” Blue Bonnet answered.

“Bob and Ben are pretty decent little chaps,” the boy said, and he brought the dogs up to be introduced.

“They’re dears,” Blue Bonnet declared warmly, patting the two upturned heads.

The puppies shook hands politely, wagging their stumps of tails eagerly.

“We haven’t any dogs over here,” Blue Bonnet said regretfully. “I don’t know how I’m going to get on without any.”

“We’ll go shares with mine.” The boy hesitated. “You’re—?”

“Bl—Elizabeth Ashe.”

“And I’m Alec Trent. You’re from Texas?”

“Yes,” Blue Bonnet answered.

“How jolly!” Alec threw himself down on the lawn beside the stile. “You won’t mind my making myself comfortable while you tell me about Texas?”

And suddenly Blue Bonnet noticed how thin were the hands clasped under his head, how big and bright the eyes in the delicate, sensitive face.

She leaned forward, stirred by a quick impulse of pity. “I’ll tell you about the prairies.” She told him of the great open sea of prairie land, stretching away in wild, unbroken reaches all about her Texas home.

Alec whistled. “And you had to come away and leave it all! What a shame!—but you’ve got it to go back to—I wish I had!” “Don’t you like it here in Woodford?”

“It’s a poky old hole. You can’t throw a stone in any direction without breaking a window—or a tradition.”

“Do you want to break—windows?”

“Sometimes.”

Blue Bonnet leaned forward, elbow on knee, chin in hand. “I wonder if you’d call it breaking windows—my wanting to come East.”

“Did you want to come?”

“Yes.”

“Well!” Alec exclaimed; and she felt for the moment his approval of her lessen.

“Here I’ve been feeling sorry for you all the time,” he said; then he smiled,—“I don’t know but that I’ll have to go on feeling so—because you wanted to come.”

“I don’t mind,” Blue Bonnet said, “as long as you don’t show it too plainly.”

“You’ve come to go to school?” the boy asked.

“Yes; is it a nice school?”

“It’s a good one.”

“Do you go to it?”

“Oh, all the Woodford boys and girls go to it, as their fathers and mothers did before them.”

“I’ve never been to school.”

“Then you’ve got a lot of new experiences coming your way, and they won’t all be pleasant ones. Going to school isn’t all joy, and neither is it all the other thing. You’ll get acquainted with a lot of girls that way.”

“I shall like that. I want to know—oh, everybody here!”

“I don’t,” Alec laughed. He got up. “Do you like horses? But of course you do,—a Texas girl.”

“Yes, I love horses,” Blue Bonnet said slowly.

“Come and see my horse, then; Grandfather gave him to me last birthday.” Alec led the way across the lawn to where a path branched off to the stable.

It was a low brick building, matching the house in style. From their comfortable stalls the sober old carriage horses gazed placidly out.

Blue Bonnet went to stroke them. “They’re just like Grandmother’s,” she laughed.

“Oh, we’re a good deal alike here in Woodford,” Alec said, “we ‘first families,’ that is. Of course our horses aren’t all the same color, any more than our houses are; but they’ve all reached about the same state of lazy well-being. But look here!” He turned to another stall.

Blue Bonnet gave a quick exclamation of pleasure and reached out a hand to smooth the glossy head turned towards her. “Oh, he is a beauty!” she cried. “What’s his name?”

“Victor,” Alec moved nearer, and the horse with a low whinny of welcome sniffed expectantly at his pocket.

“I’ve your sugar, all right, old fellow,” the boy said, holding out a couple of lumps.

“I reckon he goes well?” Blue Bonnet said.

“Like the wind.”

“You like that?” the girl asked.

“I certainly do. I’d let you try him some day, only I don’t know whether he’d stand skirts—he’s got a pretty spirit of his own.”

Blue Bonnet edged away. “I—think I’d better be going now; I’m afraid it’s late.”

“It’s been a short morning, hasn’t it?” Alec said. “They’re rather long, sometimes.”

“You’ll come over soon?” Blue Bonnet asked, as they reached the stile again.

“Indeed I will,” Alec promised.

“Good-bye,” Blue Bonnet called, as she ran across the lawn and through the garden to the side door. In the hall she met Aunt Lucinda.

“My dear,” Miss Clyde said, something very like annoyance in her voice, “where have you been all the morning?”

Blue Bonnet flushed. “Over to the next place most of the time, Aunt Lucinda.”

“You have been with Alec Trent?”

“Yes, Aunt Lucinda.”

“You have not attended to your unpacking yet?” “No, Aunt Lucinda.”

“Nor seen to your room?”

Blue Bonnet looked surprised. “No, Aunt Lucinda; did you expect me to? I never did at home.”

“Then it is quite time that you began, Elizabeth. If you will come upstairs with me you shall have your first lesson. I consider it most necessary that a young girl should be taught to depend on herself as much as possible.”

Blue Bonnet followed silently. Her room was just as she had left it on going down to breakfast that morning. Now, with the noon sunshine flooding it, and with Aunt Lucinda looking about with grave disapproving eyes, it looked very untidy indeed.

Blue Bonnet sighed longingly for Benita, as she picked up the dress she had worn the day before and carried it to the big empty closet. Then she turned to the open trunk, out of which she had hurriedly pulled various things needed in dressing, that morning.

But Miss Clyde laid a detaining hand on her shoulder. “We will dispose of the things already out before unpacking further, Elizabeth.”

The end of the next hour found Blue Bonnet far from at peace with all her particular world.

“As if it really mattered,” she said to herself, sitting forlornly in a corner of one of the low window-seats, “which drawer you put things in; or whether the quilt is on just so. And I haven’t been idling my morning, I’ve been making a friend; and I don’t want to learn to keep house;—anyway, Benita wouldn’t let me keep house if I could.”

She sat up at the sound of a light tap on her door; then the door opened and her grandmother came in.

“I wanted to make sure you were really here, dear,” she said. “You vanished so mysteriously right after breakfast that it was hard to believe you had ever come.”

Blue Bonnet had come forward instantly. “I didn’t mean to stay so,” she said; “I just ran out for a moment to see the garden—it was so good to get out after being shut up in the cars for so long. Then I got acquainted with the boy next door. He’s a very nice boy, Grandmother.”

“Alec is a nice boy, dear; but, I am afraid, a rather lonely one.”

“Lonely! When there are so many people and houses all around?”

Mrs. Clyde smiled. “One can be lonely in the midst of a crowd, dear.”

She drew Blue Bonnet down on the lounge beside her. “I hope you like your room, Elizabeth. I superintended the arranging of it myself.”

And Blue Bonnet, looking about the big, pleasant room, saw it with new understanding. “I—I love it,” she said; “I’ll—try to keep it nice, Grandmother.”

“You have had a pleasant morning, dear?”

Blue Bonnet hesitated. “It was nice—while I was out-of-doors. Grandmother,”—she looked up questioningly,—“have I got to do things every morning with Aunt Lucinda?”

“Do things, Elizabeth!”

“Why, going over my studies with her, and learning to do things about the house; and then my practising, too?”

“What would you like to do with your mornings, Elizabeth?”

“Nothing in particular, just be out-of-doors.”

“Won’t the afternoons be long enough for that, dear?”

“I’ve never found the whole day really long enough for it, Grandmother. I just love being out.”

“But, Elizabeth, school will be beginning before very long; and I think we must try and tame you down a bit before then. As for your studies, your aunt is anxious to learn what your standing is. Suppose, however, we let lessons go for this week. How will that do?”

“Thursday, Friday, Saturday,” Blue Bonnet counted, “besides this afternoon—I ought to get to know Woodford pretty well in that time, Grandmother.” “And when are we going to get to know you, Elizabeth?”

“Why!” Blue Bonnet said, “I hadn’t thought of that; but there’ll be the evenings.”

Mrs. Clyde smiled. “Remember, Elizabeth, that Woodford covers a fairly wide area; you mustn’t roam too far afield alone.”

“Maybe Alec’ll go with me. I wish I had Don; he went everywhere at home with me. He’s the dearest dog, Grandmother.”

“I rather think Don is happier where he is, dear; and now we must go down to dinner.”

That afternoon Blue Bonnet was in her own room, just finishing a letter to her uncle, when Miss Clyde came to her door. “Elizabeth,” she said, “Sarah Blake has come to call upon you. She is the minister’s daughter, a most estimable young person. I sincerely hope you may become friends.” She scanned Blue Bonnet critically. “You would do well to change your gown and tidy your hair. Be as quick as possible; it is never good taste to keep a guest waiting.”

Five minutes later, Blue Bonnet came slowly downstairs; pausing on the landing long enough to declare under her breath that she was perfectly sure she should hate Sarah Blake.

Sarah was waiting in the darkened front parlor. She was short and fair; rather unimaginative and decidedly conscientious. She very much disliked calling upon strangers, and for that reason had chosen the earliest opportunity to come and see Blue Bonnet.

“How do you do?” she said, as Blue Bonnet appeared. “Mrs. Clyde asked me to come and see you. I hope you will like Woodford.”

“So do I,” Blue Bonnet answered. “Would you mind coming outside?” she added. “It’s much nicer.”

They went out to the shady front piazza where Blue Bonnet drew forward a couple of wicker armchairs. “Now I can see what you look like,” she announced frankly; “it was so dark in there.”

Sarah looked rather uncomfortable at this.

“Aunt Lucinda says she hopes we will be friends,” Blue Bonnet went on. “What do you like to do?”

Sarah opened and closed her fan nervously. “I like—keeping house, and going to school and—sewing—”

“Please stop!” Blue Bonnet implored. “I don’t mean those kinds of things. Don’t you like doing anything—sensible?”

Sarah stared. “Sensible!”

“Well, what I call sensible—tiresome things can’t be really sensible, can they?”

It was a new philosophy for Sarah. “Are all the girls here like that?” Blue Bonnet asked.

“I—suppose so. Kitty Clark isn’t very domestic, I’m afraid.”

Blue Bonnet registered a mental vow to get acquainted with Kitty Clark as soon as possible. “Wouldn’t you like to see the garden?” she asked.

Sarah assented; she felt dizzy and bewildered. “Mrs. Clyde has a very pretty garden,” she said, politely, as they went down the steps and along the trim box-bordered path.

“It’s all right!” Blue Bonnet agreed. She gathered flowers with a generous hand. “And now, what shall we do next?” she asked, giving them to Sarah.

“I must be going,” Sarah answered.

“But you’ve only just come!” Blue Bonnet protested.

“I think I have made a very long call,” Sarah said soberly; and indeed it may have seemed long to Sarah.

Outside the gate, she stopped a moment. Texas girls were certainly rather exhausting, and yet she thought she should like Elizabeth Ashe. Perhaps, after she had been in Woodford a while, she would quiet down.

Half an hour before supper Miss Clyde came round to the side piazza, where her mother sat reading. “Mother,” she asked, “have you seen Elizabeth?”

“Not since dinner time, Lucinda.”

“She does not appear to be anywhere about the place,” Miss Clyde said, rather anxiously. “She is utterly irresponsible; Mr. Ashe should have sent her East long ago.”

“I think she is coming now,” Mrs. Clyde said.

There was the sound of quick steps on the drive; a moment after, Blue Bonnet, hatless, her white dress soiled and crumpled, appeared, carrying a small dog in her arms.

“Grandmother,” she cried, “I’ve got a dog! I bought him from a boy up the road,—he was treating him mighty mean.”

“What are you going to do with him, Elizabeth?” Miss Clyde asked.

“Why, keep him, Aunt Lucinda. He’s a pretty dilapidated-looking specimen now, isn’t he? But wait until he’s had a bath and a few good meals. I reckon if ever a dog needed a good home, he does.”

Blue Bonnet put the dog down and he made straight for Aunt Lucinda, crouching at her feet beseechingly. He was truly the forlornest of creatures, but with strangely pathetic, intelligent brown eyes.

A moment Miss Clyde wavered; then she moved away. “I think those ‘good meals’ cannot begin too soon, Elizabeth,” she said. “But he must stay down at the stable.”

“Not for always?” the girl cried.

“That will have to be decided later,” her grandmother told her; “take him away now, dear.”

“I think I’ll call him Solomon, he looks so wise,” Blue Bonnet said. Halfway down to the stable, she stooped to pat the dog’s rough head. “Solomon,” she asked, “how did you know that Aunt Lucinda held the deciding vote?”