Mrs. Clyde, sitting at her sewing in her own room, started in surprise as the front door was slammed violently, followed by a quick rush of feet on the stairs.

That the commotion could only be caused by Elizabeth was probable, but what was she doing home from school at this hour?

Going to Blue Bonnet’s room to inquire, she found her tossing the things about in her upper drawer in a wild search for something.

“Elizabeth!” she exclaimed.

“I can’t find my purse, Grandmother.” Blue Bonnet did not turn around.

“Your purse?”

“I want to send a telegram to Uncle Cliff. I—I’m going home.”

Mrs. Clyde sat down on the lounge. “You are going home!”

“Yes, Grandmother.” Blue Bonnet had found her purse at last, and was hurriedly counting its contents. “Uncle Cliff told me I had only to send word and—and—” Dropping suddenly into a chair, Blue Bonnet hid her face in her hands. The last barrier her pride had raised had fallen, broken down by that scene of the morning. Her one thought now was to go back. Back to the ranch, where there were no explanations to be made; no Miss Rankins to be displeased with one; no principals to be sent to. She hated it here in the East—hated the life and all it stood—Blue Bonnet caught herself up, remembering the last time she had used those same words.

“Elizabeth,” her grandmother asked, “what has happened?”

Blue Bonnet wiped her eyes impatiently. “Miss Rankin has behaved horridly; and I—came home; I’m never going back!”—the words came punctuated with sobs.

“And what had you done, Elizabeth, to occasion such behavior on the part of Miss Rankin?”

“I—intended to explain. She—wouldn’t listen. She said I—must go to—Mr. Hunt!” Blue Bonnet’s head went down again; the memory of that moment’s humiliation was too much for her.

“She sent you to Mr. Hunt, Elizabeth?”

“Yes, Grandmother; but I didn’t go—I came home.”

“But, Elizabeth, what could you have done, requiring such extreme measures? Come here and tell me about it.”

And Blue Bonnet obeyed. Grandmother listened to the long, rather incoherent story in a silence that Blue Bonnet did not feel to be entirely condemnatory. For Grandmother had the blessed gift of seeing more than one side of a question. Knowing the girl’s inherited love of freedom, remembering her upbringing, she had not the heart to be too hard upon her. And yet, for the girl’s own sake, she could not be too easy.

“And so,” Blue Bonnet ended wearily, “I want to go home. I’m so tired of being ‘trained,’ Grandmother.”

“Tired of it, at fifteen, Elizabeth! When the training has only just begun! But you shall go back—if you really wish to—though the going must be done decently and in order; or you shall stay, and do that which in your heart you know to be right. The decision shall rest with yourself; but remember, Elizabeth, as you decide, so will your whole life be the weaker or the stronger for it.”

“But, Grandmother—even if I could—it’s too late.”

“It is not too late, Elizabeth.”

“Grandmother, I can’t do it!” Blue Bonnet sobbed.

“It will be hard, dear; I do not deny it.”

The girl moved restlessly. “I want to go home.”

“I have said that you may go, Elizabeth. But you are not the girl I think you, if you run away in that cowardly fashion. I am going to leave you to decide the matter here and now.”

In her own room, Mrs. Clyde waited rather anxiously for the issue. Whatever the decision, it was likely to be a speedy one. She was glad that Lucinda had chosen this day on which to go to Boston. Lucinda’s methods were a little too strenuous for a case of this kind.

Less than a quarter of an hour later, the front door slammed again. From the window, Mrs. Clyde caught a glimpse of a hurrying figure, a crimson tam-o’-shanter, even more awry than usual. She went back to her sewing with hands that trembled a little. Was it Mr. Hunt, or the telegraph office?

Just before the noon intermission, Mr. Hunt heard a low knock on his door. “Come in,” he called, wheeling round in his chair as Blue Bonnet entered.

“Good morning, Elizabeth,” he said. “Haven’t you been rather a long time getting here?” He had seen Miss Rankin at recess.

Something in his tone, in the grave kindly eyes, gave Blue Bonnet courage.

She came up to the desk. “I—I shouldn’t have come at all, if it hadn’t been for Grandmother. She—she said it would be—cowardly—not to.”

“Ah!” Mr. Hunt said.

“I was going home—to the ranch.” “Rather than face me?”

“It was—the having to come.”

“Suppose you tell me why you had to come?”

“Because I—didn’t stay in yesterday, when Miss Rankin told me to.”

“Why didn’t you, Elizabeth?”

And Blue Bonnet, looking at him with a pair of very frank blue eyes, told him why,—very much as she had told her grandmother.

There was a short silence when she had finished; then Mr. Hunt said, “Elizabeth, do you suppose you are the only one who gets tired, very tired, of the confinement of school work—who longs for the open? What if we were all—Miss Rankin, all the teachers, myself—to drop everything, and go when the fancy seized us?”

“But I don’t,” Blue Bonnet answered; “I’ve never been before school closed, though it’s been pretty hard not to, some days.”

“Yesterday was not the first time you went before you had the right—even though school was over.”

“No,” Blue Bonnet admitted. “You—you know about the other time?”

“Yes.”

“But I made that up—and that first time—it didn’t seem very wrong. You see I’ve never been to school before I came to Woodford; and tutors aren’t very—strict. At least, mine weren’t.” “How about the second time, Elizabeth? You must have known then.”

“I couldn’t stay,” Blue Bonnet answered. “I had to get out-of-doors. I think fifteen is rather too late to begin to go to school, after all.”

Mr. Hunt smiled a little. “It is because you are so unused to school routine, and school discipline that we have been very patient with you, Elizabeth. But things cannot go on as they have been doing. Do you want your class to go on without you? If they do, it will not be because you have not the ability but the will to keep up with them.”

“I never thought of that,” Blue Bonnet said.

“I want you to think of it very seriously. And now, what do you suppose I am going to do with you?”

Blue Bonnet caught her breath. Her ideas as to what a principal might or might not be expected to do under the circumstances, were indefinite—and a little disquieting. “I don’t know,” she said.

“I am going to put you on your honor not to disobey in this fashion again; and to try to conform more carefully to all the rules of the school,—which will include, most emphatically, being more punctual. Your record, in that respect, Elizabeth, is decidedly very far from what it should be.”

Blue Bonnet looked exceedingly sober. Being put on her honor meant all to the girl that Mr. Hunt had known it would. “I’ll promise, Mr. Hunt,” she said, after a moment or two.

Miss Rankin had had more than one inattentive pupil that forenoon. As the morning went by and Blue Bonnet did not reappear, excitement ran high among the “We are Seven’s.”

“Mean old thing!” Kitty telegraphed to Debby, behind their teacher’s back.

And Debby nodded agreement.

Just before afternoon school, Blue Bonnet came in and went straight to Miss Rankin’s desk. There was a straining of eyes and ears, but nothing was heard of the low conversation that followed. Then, for a moment, Miss Rankin laid a hand on Blue Bonnet’s shoulder,—a most unwonted demonstration.

A moment after, Blue Bonnet turned and came slowly down the aisle to her place.

“Where have you been, Elizabeth Ashe?” Kitty demanded.

“In various places,” Blue Bonnet answered.

“I was just thinking about organizing a relief expedition!”

“For whom?” Blue Bonnet asked. Almost harder than the going to Mr. Hunt had the coming back to class been for her. She had passed the noon hour by herself in the grove back of the schoolhouse, doing some of the hardest thinking she had ever done in her life.

The face she wore now was far too serious to suit Kitty’s ideas.

“Was he very—dreadful, Elizabeth?” she asked sympathetically.

“He was—not.”

“You know,” Kitty said thoughtfully, “Mr. Hunt can be rather—awful.”

“How do you know?” Blue Bonnet questioned.

Kitty turned to the rest. “Beginning to sit up and take notice,” she announced demurely.

Mr. Hunt met Miss Rankin in the corridor that afternoon and stopped to speak with her. “Well,” he said, “your young Texan appeared—eventually.”

“So I understand.”

“I don’t believe it will happen again. I have put her on her honor.”

“The best thing you could have done, I think.”

“Poor child!” Mr. Hunt said. “To use a simile peculiarly appropriate in her case, she is not taking very kindly to bit and bridle. Ease up a bit on her, when you can, Miss Rankin.”

“I intend to. Did you send her to me, Mr. Hunt?”

“To apologize? No. That was one of the things I left to her honor.” “Quite safely, as it proved,” Miss Rankin answered. “She is a dear child. I think things will run more smoothly now.”

Blue Bonnet was rather late in getting home from school that afternoon, but two of those lessons had been made up.

At the door, her grandmother met her. “Elizabeth!”

Blue Bonnet looked up. “I reckon it’s all right, Grandmother.”

“You have seen Mr. Hunt, Elizabeth?”

“Yes, Grandmother; he was mighty kind.”

“I am very glad, Elizabeth; but where were you this noon?”

“In the grove. I didn’t want any lunch. Oh, dear!” Blue Bonnet looked up, struck by a sudden thought. “Were you worried, Grandmother?”

“I was a little anxious. You had left me in something of an uncertainty, you remember.”

“I reckon you knew how it would come out, Grandmother. I wonder will I ever learn to think of everything?”

“I think you are learning to think of a good many things, dear. Now you must have some lunch, and then go for a brisk walk.”

“I was going to study.”

Mrs. Clyde kissed the pale face. “You will do all the better work after you have had some fresh air. It has not been the lack of time but the lack of attention that has made all the trouble, dear.”

As Blue Bonnet and Solomon came down the drive a little later, they met Alec at the gate. “Halloa,” he said, “you’re not running at your usual speed! Where are you headed for?”

“I’m only going for a walk.”

“I’m your man, then. We’ll go out on the turnpike.”

It was rather a silent walk at first. Once out on the turnpike, Blue Bonnet’s spirits began to revive.

“Oh, but I am glad to-day is nearly over!” she said fervently.

“What’ve they been doing to you, anyway?” Alec exclaimed indignantly. He was not in Blue Bonnet’s room at school, but Kitty had given him a graphic account of the day’s happenings.

Blue Bonnet pulled off her tam-o’-shanter, letting the fresh wind blow through her hair. “Nothing,” she answered; “they left all the doing to me.”

As she spoke, a man on horseback passed them at a swift gallop. Instantly the girl turned, looking after him with eager eyes. He was riding as the men at home rode.

“That was Darrel,” Alec said, “and the mare.”

Blue Bonnet’s color deepened. “She is like—Firefly. Alec, if one might have her three wishes—or, even one!” “What would you choose?” Alec asked. He knew what his choice would be—and he would be content with the one wish, too, if only it brought him the strength he craved.

Blue Bonnet was standing quite still, looking off along the turnpike. “Courage,” she answered; “first, last, and always!”

She came home still in subdued mood, coming to sit with grandmother in the twilight, with a little involuntary sigh of relief that to-night they two were alone together.

“So you are going to stay with us, Elizabeth,” Mrs. Clyde said, “and try to make yourself ready to go back?”

“Yes, Grandmother.”

“Is the staying very hard, dear?”

“I am so homesick, Grandmother. Not all the time; but lately. I like it here and being with you—and Aunt Lucinda; and knowing Alec and the girls. But still I want to go back; and oh, I do want to be called Blue Bonnet!”

“Why, Elizabeth, your uncle wrote that you preferred not to be called Blue Bonnet. Your aunt and I have been very careful to remember.”

“Indeed you have,” Blue Bonnet declared. “I would like to be called it, though, Grandmother—I think I shouldn’t be so homesick, then. And it’s—so hard—to live up to ‘Elizabeth.’” “I would do a good deal more than that, dear, to make you content to stay with us.”

“Grandmother, do you mean—you truly like having me here?”

“How can you ask that, dear!”

“But, I’m such a lot of trouble.”

“Trouble that we would not willingly forego.”

Blue Bonnet nestled closer. “I almost wish you didn’t care so much. I shall have to go some day. I—papa would not like me not to.”

“I know, dear; some day you must go back. Only you want to make yourself ready—I do not think you are quite that yet.”

“No—I must get I suppose where I won’t let Benita and the rest spoil me. It’s very pleasant, being spoiled, Grandmother. I never knew how much Benita did for me, until I came here. She always did my hair—she can braid hair beautifully. It hasn’t looked very beautiful lately. I hate braiding hair.”

“It is rather flyaway hair,” Mrs. Clyde smoothed the girl’s head lovingly, “but I don’t think it is quite as flyaway as it was at first.”

“I wish you were going back to the ranch with me,” Blue Bonnet said. “Grandmother, don’t you ever get tired of having the houses so close? Wouldn’t you like to push them back?”

“I don’t know that I would, dear.” “I would,” Blue Bonnet said; then for a while she sat very still, looking into the fire.

Mrs. Clyde was silent also; she was thinking of the other Elizabeth—who had left her at eighteen.

“Grandmother,” Blue Bonnet said sadly, “it’s no use—I sha’n’t ever be ready—really ready. Imagine living on a cattle ranch, and being afraid to ride!”

“Dear—is that the fear you meant that night?”

“Yes, Grandmother.”

“I cannot understand. Your uncle used to write what a fearless little horsewoman you were.”

“I know. Grandmother, I think I should like to tell you—I’ve never told anyone—perhaps, then, I sha’n’t remember it so.”

“Tell me, dear.”

“It’s—I—I saw one of the men—he had been thrown—and dragged—it was horrible! No one knew I saw him—that was last summer—I haven’t been on a horse since.”

“You should have told your uncle at once, dear; keeping it to yourself was the worst thing you could have done.”

“I couldn’t bear to speak of it—I thought I should forget. Then, one afternoon, I went out to mount Firefly—and I—couldn’t. Uncle Cliff used to wonder why I wasn’t riding; he asked me about it one night, and I just up and told him I was afraid. That was the time he said ‘afraid’ was an odd word for an Ashe to use.”

“Have you honestly tried to conquer this fear, dear?”

“I haven’t tried to ride since that first time—after I had seen—that. It wouldn’t be any use. I can’t ride, Grandmother. That’s why I couldn’t bear to stay on the ranch.”

“Yet you want to go back?”

“Yes, I want to go back—even if I can’t ride. I reckon I’ll have to drive.”

“You are not afraid to drive?”

“No; at least, I haven’t been here.”

Mrs. Clyde laughed. “I daresay our Woodford horses do seem a bit tame. I wish, dear, I had some real comfort to give you. Perhaps, in time—”

“I’m more afraid now than I was at first,” Blue Bonnet answered. She rose as Delia came in to light up. “I’m going to study mighty hard to-night, Grandmother. You’re going to have the star pupil for a granddaughter after this.”

When Blue Bonnet went up to bed that evening, she found a little bundle of letters, smelling of lavender, lying on her dressing-table.

Her first thought was to sit down and read them then and there; but, with a little resolute shake of the head, she made herself get quite ready for bed first; then, wrapping a gaily striped Mexican blanket about her, she curled herself up on the foot of her bed, the letters in her lap.

And so vivid were they, so dear and familiar the scenes they portrayed, that presently the girl had forgotten time and place, and was feeling the prairie wind on her face; seeing the swaying of the tall grass; hearing the sounds of the ranch life—rejoicing in the freedom of it all.

In one of the letters, she found a few dried blue bonnets—the letter in which her mother had written of her coming.—“And she is to be called Blue Bonnet, our little prairie flower, with her eyes just the color of the blue bonnets growing wild and thick in the prairie grass. Some day, you shall see her, Mother.”

Blue Bonnet’s eyes were wet. And she had said she hated the ranch—had asked not to be called Blue Bonnet! How the memory of those hasty, thoughtless words hurt!

“Elizabeth!”

The girl started, and looked around.

Mrs. Clyde stood in the open doorway. “My dear, do you know how late it is?”

“Late!”

“It is after half-past eleven.”

And the rule was that Blue Bonnet’s light must be out by ten. “And I thought I had reformed!” Blue Bonnet said. “But, Grandmother, I did make myself get all ready for bed first. Well, I reckon you’ll just have to scold me.”

“It is too late even for that,” Mrs. Clyde answered, and hurried the girl into bed. Bending in the dark to kiss her, she said softly, “Good-night, little Blue Bonnet.”

Blue Bonnet woke the next morning with the idea firmly fixed in her mind that the only thing for her to do was to write to her uncle, confessing frankly how honestly she regretted those hasty words of hers, and how very far she was from hating the ranch and everything connected with it.

The Blue Bonnet of yesterday morning would have sat down to the writing of it at once; the Blue Bonnet of to-day dressed and went down to breakfast with a promptness that won her a smile of approval from her grandmother.

After breakfast, there was no time; she was determined not to be late to school that day. But she did write at recess—much to Kitty’s disgust.

“Goodness only knows where you were yesterday at recess, Elizabeth,” she protested, “and to-day you’re—”

“In Texas,” Blue Bonnet finished for her.

“You’re not writing about going back?”

“I am.”

“Elizabeth! When?”

“Not to-day, Kitty. Now do go away—it’s a very important letter; it must go out on the noon train.”

It was not a very coherent letter, and there was not time to make it a long one,—but it brought great pleasure to Mr. Cliff. “Looks like we needn’t put the Blue Bonnet Ranch on the market yet awhile, Joe,” he said, after reading it.

Coming in from school that afternoon, Blue Bonnet met Aunt Lucinda in the hall. “Are you just back?” she asked. “And did you have a pleasant time?”

“I came home soon after dinner, Elizabeth. Yes, I had a very pleasant time; but I am glad to be back.” Miss Clyde bent and kissed Blue Bonnet,—not a mere formal kiss of greeting. It brought the quick color to the girl’s face.

“I’m afraid you don’t know—there’s been a good deal happened since yesterday morning, Aunt Lucinda,” she said hurriedly.

“I know all about it, my dear; your grandmother has been telling me. I am much gratified with the outcome, Elizabeth.”

Blue Bonnet smiled up at her aunt. “And you’ll call me Blue Bonnet, too?”

“My dear, I thought—”

“I know—but I was Blue Bonnet at home, you know,—until I was just all round horrid that night—and oh, I do want to be called it now.”

Miss Clyde smiled. “As you like, dear; only I think I shall still reserve Elizabeth—for occasions.”

“Oh dear!” Blue Bonnet answered, “I’m afraid it’ll be more ‘Elizabeth’ than ‘Blue Bonnet’ then, Aunt Lucinda.”

“We’ll hope not, dear.” And then Aunt Lucinda actually stooped and kissed Blue Bonnet a second time.