"For once in my life," said Blue Bonnet, with a long-drawn sigh, "I'm ready for a day of rest."

"Please don't begin to rest till you've done the dishes," begged Kitty.

Blue Bonnet tossed her head scornfully. "I wouldn't trouble trouble till trouble troubles you, Kitty-Kat. If you can go to church with as clear a conscience as mine, I'll take off my hat to you. One lapse doesn't make a sinner!"

"One?" Kitty echoed, and would have continued scathingly had not Sarah interrupted with—

"I don't see how we can go to church with such looking clothes."

"Sarah's regretting the white piquÉ skirt you wouldn't let her bring," said Kitty.

"Why, Sarah," Blue Bonnet turned a pained look on the serious young person, "I would never have believed you would be one to stay away from church for lack of an Easter bonnet."

"I didn't mention Easter—nor bonnets either," Sarah declared indignantly. "The idea,—to hear you girls talk any one would think I was completely wrapped up in clothes!"

"Everybody is, you know—except savages," returned Blue Bonnet.

Sarah's expression at this caused Mrs. Clyde to rise hurriedly and vanish within her tent. Freed from this restraint Kitty went on wickedly:

"Anyway, Dr. Judson has been a missionary in Africa and I'm sure he'd excuse you if—"

Sarah left the table with great dignity, leaving the other girls weak with laughter.

Carita appeared a little later with her denim dress looking fresh, clean, and wrinkleless.

"It looks as if it had just been ironed," Sarah silently commented. When Mrs. Clyde called to the girls that it was time to go over to Camp Judson, Miss Blake was nowhere to be found.

The church service was held in the "Druid's Grove," a place of mingled shade and sunshine, where a little tumbling creek was the only accompaniment to the hymns, and the birds trilled an obligato. An old tree-stump served as pulpit, and here Dr. Judson talked rather than preached to his youthful congregation.

Blue Bonnet, listening to him, unconsciously let her eyes wander, as they always did in the church at Woodford, in search of the memorial window 'Sacred to the memory of Elizabeth Clyde Ashe' that was inseparably linked in her mind with religious service. Instead of the figure of the Good Shepherd with the lamb in his arms, the branches of the live oaks here formed a Gothic arch, in the shadow of which sat Mrs. Judson with little Joe asleep on her lap. The look on the mother's face was full of the same brooding tenderness that the artist had given to the eyes of the Shepherd of Old.

When they rose to sing, the young voices rang out clear and joyous, quite unlike the droning that too often passes for singing in a grown-up congregation.

The stirring verses, sung with a will by every one, seemed to soar to the very tree-tops, making the branches sway with the rhythm and spirit of the hymn.

Blue Bonnet heaved a sigh of regret as they rose to leave the grove. "It's so sweet,—I wish it could last all day."

"I don't remember ever having heard you make a remark like that about church before," remarked Kitty.

"I don't care much for anything that's held indoors," Blue Bonnet confessed. "And I don't like preachers who make their voices sound like the long-stop on an organ. Now that last hymn we sang makes me fairly bubble inside."

"Don't let Sarah hear you say that. She seems to think one ought to draw a long face on the Sabbath,—a sort of 'world-without-end' expression, you know. I believe she thinks it almost wicked to be happy on Sunday."

"Well, Sarah may be as blue as she likes,—this is the kind of a day that makes me feel bright pink!"

"Where is Sarah, anyway?" asked Kitty. "I haven't seen her since breakfast. Surely she didn't miss the service?"

"No, I saw her sitting by a big tree 'way at the back," said Amanda.

"It isn't like Sarah to take a back seat—at church," remarked Blue Bonnet. "I believe she must be cross because we teased her this morning."

Grandmother and Sarah were already deep in preparations for dinner when the others straggled into camp. The well-cooked meal of muffins, fried ham, potatoes and stewed dried fruit they served met with visible as well as audible approval.

"Picnic lunches are more fun, but this kind of a meal is more—filling," said Blue Bonnet. "Let's eat all we can now and have just bread and milk for supper—we've two cans of fresh milk in the creek."

"Blue Bonnet seems to have developed a sudden liking for 'jarring notes,' doesn't she, girls?" asked Kitty.

When dinner was done and the dishes washed, they all sought the buck-board seats in the lounging room.

"If we only had a book now, it would be fine to have Grandmother read aloud," remarked Blue Bonnet.

"You wouldn't let Sarah bring any books," Amanda reminded her.

"Nevertheless, methinks Sarah looks as if she had one up her sleeve," said Debby.

"Not up my sleeve," Sarah confessed, "—but in my bag. I'll go get it,—it's 'Don Quixote,' in Spanish and English both."

"Did you bring the drawn-work, too?" asked Kitty. "My, Sarah, but you are a first-rate smuggler!"

"Now that suspicion has raised its snaky head, I'd like to know—why is Sarah, long after the dishes are done, still wearing that apron?" Blue Bonnet had sent a random shot, but to her surprise Sarah flushed to the roots of her blond hair.

She rose hastily to go in search of "Don Quixote," but the other girls were too quick for her. They pitilessly tore the shielding apron from her shoulders, and the newly sponged and pressed middy jacket and khaki skirt stood revealed in all their guilty freshness.

"They've been ironed!" gasped Kitty.

"What do you think of that for selfishness,—not to let a soul know she had an iron?" demanded Debby.

"I got it over at Mrs. Judson's. And none of you said you wanted an iron," said Sarah.

"And do you mean to say that our Sarah, daughter of the Reverend Samuel Blake, wilfully broke the Sabbath by ironing?" Concentrated horror appeared on Kitty's saucy countenance.

"She probably thinks 'the better the day the better the deed,'" said Blue Bonnet.

"If Mrs. Judson could press Carita's dress, I don't see that it was any worse for me to press mine," Sarah protested. "I'm used to looking respectable at church."

"It's no wonder you refused to sit by so unrespectable a crowd as the rest of us!" exclaimed Blue Bonnet.

Mrs. Clyde was laughing inwardly, but she came to the aid of the unhappy Sarah.

"I think good nature has ceased to be a virtue, Sarah," she declared. "Hereafter you have my permission to resort to violence if necessary to protect yourself. Quiet down, girls,—remember it is Sunday."

Much relieved, Sarah brought forth the contraband book and the long peaceful afternoon was spent in listening to the various mishaps that befell the valiant Don and his faithful Sancho Panza.

"If it weren't for setting a dangerous precedent, I'd tell Sarah how glad we all are that she defied the authorities and did some smuggling," remarked Kitty. She and Debby had gone to the creek to bring up the milk for supper, and now made a pretty picture as they came up the willow-grown path, bearing the tall cans.

"You look like somebody-or-other at the well," Blue Bonnet declared as Kitty came into sight.

"Are you sure you don't mean thing-a-ma-bob?" laughed Kitty. "If you mean Rebecca, I don't agree with you. I'll wager Rebecca never wore a middy blouse or carried a tin milk-can!"

That evening the inmates of both camps again sat about a big bonfire. But this time the frolics and rollicking airs had given way to a decorous singing of patriotic songs, stirring hymns and a pleasant "sermonette" by the pastor of this youthful flock.

Long after this Sunday was past, Blue Bonnet remembered it as one of the sweetest Sabbaths she had ever spent; and she could never decide just what part of the day she had liked most,—the hour in the Druid's Grove; the afternoon when Grandmother with her pleasant voice had read aloud from "Don Quixote;" or the evening, when they sat about the glowing logs, alternately singing, and listening to Dr. Judson.

"I'm going to ask Sandy to recite," Knight whispered to her as there fell a silence.

"Get him to do 'The Bridge!'" Blue Bonnet said with dancing eyes.

"I'm sure he'd rather do 'We are Seven,'" he replied, laughing.

"I wish he'd recite the 'Hymn of the Alamo,'" said Alec, who had overheard the conversation. "Ask him to, Knight,—he'll do anything for you, and that's a fine poem."

"Alec wrote an essay on the Alamo," Blue Bonnet explained to Knight, "and it won a prize—the Sargent prize—in our school this year."

Alec squirmed with a boyish dislike of hearing himself praised; but Knight slapped him on the shoulder enthusiastically.

"Bully for you, old chap! Tell the fellows the story of the Alamo, will you? Uncle Bayard likes them to hear historical things like that—can't hear them too often."

Alec looked horrified at the idea, but Blue Bonnet joined Knight in urging him. "You tell the story of the fight and maybe Sandy will finish with the Hymn."

Sandy promising to do his part, Alec finally yielded. Sinking far back in the shadow where his face could not be seen by any of the great circle of listeners, and his voice came out of the blackness with a decided tremor in it, the boy told, and told well, the story of the frontier riflemen in their struggle for the liberation of Texas from the yoke of the Mexican dictator.

How the Texas lads thrilled at the recital of heroism, and thrilled at the mention of such names as Travis and Crockett! It was not a new tale; not a boy there but knew the story of that handful of men—less than two hundred of them—who, barricading themselves within the Alamo fortress, for ten days defied the Mexicans, over four thousand strong; only to be massacred to a man in the final heartrending fall.

Alec's voice lost its tremor and ended with a patriotic ring that made Blue Bonnet glow with pride—pride in the heroes he told of, and in the friend who told of them.

"It just needs Colonel Potter's poem to add the right climax to that bit of history," Dr. Judson declared; and Sandy stood up at once.

Sandy was used to "talking on his feet;" and he stood in an easy posture, tossing his light reddish hair back from his broad forehead, and with one hand resting lightly on the alpenstock he had been carving for Blue Bonnet.

Listening to him, Blue Bonnet lost all her early prejudice against the clever lad, and responding to the unbounded enthusiasm and the true orator's ring in the boyish voice, thrilled warmly to the spirit of the lines:

As Sandy resumed his seat amid a hush that was a greater tribute than applause, Blue Bonnet turned to Knight with glowing eyes.

"And to think those brave fellows did all that for Texas! Aren't you proud to belong to this state?"

"You'd better believe I am!"

"We've had some heroes in Massachusetts," Alec reminded them.

"And they were all Americans—and so are we." Knight's bigger way of looking at the matter settled what threatened to grow into an argument.

"That Sandy boy's a wonder," Blue Bonnet exclaimed. "I take back every uncomplimentary remark I ever made about him. Appearances are so deceiving."

"'All that glitters isn't gold,'" said Knight, looking like his uncle as he gravely quoted this ancient maxim.

"It's a pity it isn't,—Sandy would be a millionaire with that hair of his!" Blue Bonnet laughed.

"I mean 'handsome is as handsome does,'" said Knight, "—that isn't quite so dangerous a quotation. I expect to see Sandy President some day, or at least a senator."

"Can't you imagine the newspaper headings: 'Senator Red-top of Texas'—?" laughed Blue Bonnet.

"He's hoping to go East to college this fall," Knight remarked more seriously.

"It's queer," said Alec, "how all the Western boys long to go East and all the Eastern fellows think they're just made if they can come West. I'd like to trade him my chance at Harvard for his health and strength."

"Can't you arrange that trifling exchange for Alec?" Blue Bonnet asked Knight.

He shook his head. "Sandy won't take anybody's chances,—he's the sort that makes his own."

"Some of us aren't allowed to."

Alec's voice had suddenly grown moody, and Blue Bonnet thought it time to change the subject. In a moment her clear, sweet voice was leading the rest in "The Flag without a Stain."

"How do you like a Texas Sunday?" Blue Bonnet found herself beside Sarah as they walked back to Poco Tiempo, and put the question rather mischievously.

"It's been very nice, most of it," Sarah returned in a stiff manner, very unlike her usual one.

"What part didn't you like?"

Sarah made sure that the others were not listening, then answered in a tone Blue Bonnet had never heard from her before:

"I didn't like being made to feel that whatever I do is the wrong thing. I never seem to please you any more, Blue Bonnet."

"Why, Sarah!" Blue Bonnet stopped still and gazed at Sarah in consternation. Sarah paused, too, and in the faint rays from the fire the two girls looked at each other steadily for a moment without speaking. Finally Blue Bonnet blurted out:

"I wish you'd tell me just what you mean."

"I mean that I've come to the conclusion that I should have stayed in Woodford. I don't seem to fit in here." Sarah's voice shook a little.

"Sarah!" was still all Blue Bonnet could stammer. It was all so sudden and unexpected; a bolt from a clear sky.

"Please don't think I'm thin-skinned and can't stand a little teasing," Sarah continued, "for I'm sure I can—I always have had to. But lately I haven't said a thing that hasn't made one or other of you 'hoot' as Kitty says. And everything I've wanted to do you've thought ridiculous. Lately the boys have begun to laugh at me; even those I hardly know."

This time Blue Bonnet said nothing; she was overcome by the thought that all Sarah had said was quite true. She hastily reviewed the past few weeks, and as one by one she remembered various incidents, the force of Sarah's complaints struck her anew.

Kitty's dare and that wild ride; the ban put upon Sarah's Spanish books and the much-loved drawn-work; and, lately, the almost concerted effort of all of them to convert everything Sarah said and did into something unwarranted and absurd. By the time Blue Bonnet had reached her own action of that very morning in tearing the apron forcibly from Sarah's shoulders, she was dumb with shame. This was the way she had rewarded her friend for a loyalty that had been unswerving through all that dreadful week in Woodford, when the other girls had sent her to Coventry; for all her sweet thoughtfulness that had proved itself unfailing!

She suddenly threw her arms impulsively around Sarah's shoulders and faced her squarely.

"I've been downright horrid," she said earnestly. "And a rude, selfish hostess. I haven't any right to expect you to forgive me, Sarah, dear, but if you can find it in your heart to give another chance, I'll show you I can and will be different."

"It isn't serious enough to talk of forgiveness," Sarah said in her honest, straightforward way. "All I want to know is, that you're not—sorry—I came."

"Sarah, don't say that! You make me hate myself!" Blue Bonnet shook her almost fiercely. "You mustn't think it either. I'm glad, glad, glad you came! I've meant you to know it, and I've wanted you to have a splendid time, and here all the while—" she stopped and swallowed hard.

Sarah's face lighted up happily and she did what was for her an unprecedented thing,—she drew Blue Bonnet to her and gave her a hearty hug.

"That's all I wanted to know," she said. "Please don't imagine I haven't enjoyed myself, Blue Bonnet. It's been the most wonderful visit! I'm queer, I know, but I can't help liking the things I like, and if only the girls would stop trying to make me over—"

"I'll make them!" Blue Bonnet declared; and at this threat they both laughed, and the storm was over.