It was well on towards noon before any one in either the house or tent was stirring. Blue Bonnet and Ruth were the first to open their eyes, and they carried on a conversation in whispers for some time before waking the others.

Ruth looked around the six beds in the nursery and smiled. "It looks like a ward in a hospital, doesn't it?"

"Pretty healthy looking invalids in them," Blue Bonnet replied. "Look what red cheeks Kitty has."

Ruth raised herself and leaned on one elbow, peering at the unconscious Kitty. "Red as fire. Doesn't she look funny?"

"Makes her hair look pale!" laughed Blue Bonnet. All at once, as she studied the face that looked a brilliant scarlet against the white pillow, the smile faded from her face. "Ruth, come here," she said in a queer tone.

Ruth obediently stole from her bed and tiptoed to Blue Bonnet's side.

"Look at Kitty hard."

"Doesn't she look strange?" Ruth whispered.

A sudden thought made Blue Bonnet start. "Ruth, were you fumigated before you left Woodford?"

"Fumigated? Goodness no! They fumigate houses, not people."

"Well, disinfected is what I mean, I reckon. Kitty's got a rash—and it's scarlet!"

They gazed at each other in dismay. Kitty stirred, moaned, and sat up.

"What are you all talking about?—oh, girls,—I can't open my eyes!"

At her cry all the other occupants of the nursery woke up, and crowded about the anguished Kitty.

"Oh, Susy, look at her," cried Blue Bonnet. "Did Ruth look like that? Do you think it's scarlet fever?"

"Scarlet fever nothing!" wailed Kitty. "It's poison ivy, that's what it is!"

"How can it be? What makes you think so?" Blue Bonnet demanded.

Kitty's tale was soon told, and to her indignation it provoked a laugh.

"It's no laughing matter, I tell you," she exclaimed miserably.

"You wouldn't say that if you could see yourself!" Blue Bonnet returned.

"You wouldn't think it so funny if both your eyes were swollen shut and your face burned like fire." Kitty tried to look pathetic, but only succeeded in looking funnier than ever.

Stifling their laughter, but exchanging glances of amusement every time they caught sight of Kitty's blotched and swollen countenance, the girls dressed and went to seek advice for the sufferer. Everything in the shape of a remedy from soap-suds to raw beefsteak was proposed by somebody or other, and nearly every one of them tried before the day was over. Kitty kept her bed and Sarah constituting herself nurse, ministered unto the afflicted one.

It was hard for fun-loving Kitty to be shut up in a darkened room with her eyes and face bandaged, while the sounds of merriment and laughter floated tantalizingly in. Sarah was kept busy bearing the numerous messages of sympathy, ranging from the sublime to the ridiculous, that Sandy and some of the other boys spent their time in composing.

It was decided that the party from Camp Judson should remain over until the next day, since all had risen too late for the desired early start. Carita looked supremely happy when Knight yielded to Blue Bonnet's arguments and reached this decision. She had so wanted to stay, and yet—there were so many reasons why she should go; and it was a great relief to her conscience to have Knight assume all responsibility for their prolonged visit.

"Now maybe we can have another nice talk," she said, sinking down beside Blue Bonnet in the hammock on the side veranda. "We've had only snatches, so far. And it will be so long before I see you again."

"What makes you think so?" Blue Bonnet asked rather abruptly.

"Why,—you will be leaving in two weeks, the girls said."

"Oh, they did." Blue Bonnet was thoughtful for a moment, then burst out—"Carita, what would you do, if you were in my place,—about going back East again?"

"What would I do?" Carita repeated wonderingly. "Why, Blue Bonnet, do you mean that you're not sure about going?"

"I do mean—just that. The girls have taken it for granted all along that I was going back with them, but somehow I can't make up my mind. Every day the ranch grows dearer. And being shut up in a stuffy schoolroom, and having to get up and go to bed by the clock, and having a place for everything and everything in its place—Carita, it goes against the grain!"

Carita gave a comical little sigh. "It's queer how things seem to be—cut on the bias, isn't it? Now to go to school, and see and know lots of people, and have libraries and hear music—why, I seem sometimes to ache for it all."

"It's a pity you're not Aunt Lucinda's niece. You'd do her credit. Now the only person I seem to suit through and through, is Uncle Cliff. He's been father and mother both to me, and I think that I owe him something in return. I can't bear to leave him all alone again."

"I know. I should feel just that way about Mother. She needs me, but, if we could afford it, she'd be the first to send me away to school. If I could get enough education to teach, I could help her more in the end."

"I reckon it's the end that makes everything endurable. It was the thought of getting back to the ranch that got me through last year. But I haven't let myself think what the end of this summer would bring. Every day on the ranch is complete in itself."

"But think how it will seem after this—when the girls are all gone, and your grandmother—"

"It's Grandmother who counts more than any one, except Uncle Cliff. I reckon I'll just have to be blindfolded and then choose!"

"There come Knight and Alec," said Carita. "I shouldn't wonder if they'd been having the same sort of a conversation. They'd like to change places with each other. Knight is wild to go East to college, and Alec would give anything for—"

"Knight's health and strength,—I know," Blue Bonnet interrupted. "It's another case of the mixed-upness of things. I'm disappointed in Alec."

Carita opened her eyes wide. "Disappointed? Why, I should think you, of all people, feeling as you do, would sympathize with him."

"I do sympathize with him, and always have. That's why I was so glad Uncle Cliff asked him out here. I was sure it would do him the world of good—"

"And so it has," said Carita. "It has done wonders for him, Knight says, and that's why—"

"And that's why I don't understand how he could possibly—" Blue Bonnet broke off as the subject of their conversation took the three veranda steps in one leap and settled himself comfortably on the railing for a chat. Knight threw himself into a chair near the hammock.

"What are you two plotting?" asked Alec. "You've had your heads together like a pair of Russian conspirators."

"We're only trying to make the most of every minute we're together. At least that's what I'm doing," said Carita. "I believe you two are doing very much the same thing."

The boys smiled at each other: that was a girl's way of putting it, but it came very near the truth.

"I reckon you two girls will have lots to write about this winter," said Knight. "Carita used to wonder, all last year, how you looked, and what the We are Sevens were like, and what you all wore and did and ate and—" He broke off with a laugh at Carita's indignant denial. "I expect her mind will be in Woodford more than ever, after this."

"But Blue Bonnet may not go back," Carita began, when a look from Blue Bonnet checked her.

"Not go back?" In his surprise Alec nearly fell off the railing. "Here's news for the We are Sevens! Well, Blue Bonnet, I can't say I'm sorry." So far from being depressed at the prospect, Alec looked highly elated.

Blue Bonnet was strangely still. Alec had said that very much as if he meant it. And it hurt. After almost a year of close friendship it was, to say the least, hardly good taste to pretend he was glad she was no longer going to live next door to him. She did not intend, however, to let him see how she felt, and rose without glancing in his direction.

"I must go see Kitty," she said briefly.

Alec looked after her with a perplexed expression in his eyes. "Isn't Blue Bonnet a bit offish lately, Carita? She doesn't seem at all like herself."

"I think she's worried," said Carita. "It is hard trying to please both her uncle and her grandmother, when one wants her in Massachusetts, and the other urges her to stay on the ranch."

"So that's the trouble?" Alec looked somewhat relieved.

"Poor Blue Bonnet must feel rather like the rag we saw Texas and Massachusetts worrying this morning," laughed Knight, "each took a corner and pulled!"

"She ought to appreciate one fact," added Alec, "and that is, she at least can decide for herself. She isn't compelled to do what somebody else decides for her."

"Just the same, I believe she would prefer having some one else do it," said Carita.

In spite of Carita's explanation, Alec was not wholly at ease in his mind about Blue Bonnet. He imagined that her manner to him for the last few days had conveyed a vague reproach. But he had no chance that day to talk with her alone.

Early the next morning Carita and Knight and the other boys prepared for the long ride back to Camp Judson.

"You'll write me soon, Blue Bonnet, won't you, and tell me what you decide to do?" Carita asked as she leaned down from her pinto for a last word with Blue Bonnet.

"Indeed I will," Blue Bonnet assured her. "I wish I knew now."

"And you'll write often if you go back—all about school and the girls and—"

"I'll write about everything, if—!"

And this was the word on which they parted.

Sandy lingered behind the others long enough to slip an envelope into Blue Bonnet's hand. "For Kitty," he explained. "Tell her I'm mighty sorry I couldn't see her to say good-bye."

"Maybe it is only 'hasta la vista,' as the Spanish say,—'good-bye till we meet again,'" said Blue Bonnet. "You must surely come to Woodford and see us if you go to Harvard."

"'Neither foes nor loving friends'—shall hinder me from doing that same, if—!"

And with this word, Sandy, too, galloped after the others.

Alec was to accompany the boys as far as the ford. As he rode away on Strawberry, looking very straight and manly in the saddle, General Trent gazed after him with an expression of pride in his eyes.

"The change in the boy is hardly short of marvellous, Miss Blue Bonnet," he said at last, turning to her. "I should never have believed it if I had not seen him. I'm very grateful to you for writing me that letter, though I confess you had me badly puzzled."

Blue Bonnet had stood looking regretfully after Carita, but at the General's words she turned with a brightened face. If he was grateful, then he must have forgiven her for bringing him to Texas on what was evidently an unnecessary errand.

"I was afraid you might think I had—rushed in," she said.

"Not at all!" he replied. "Though I did not quite understand—you weren't entirely clear, you know."

Indeed she did know!

"But Alec has explained the situation," the General continued, "and I understand everything now."

Blue Bonnet drew a quick breath of relief. "Then it's all right?"

"Yes,—and he need not have hesitated. I sympathize with him wholly."

Sympathize? How queerly he said it. Again Blue Bonnet was swept out to sea.

"I am going to talk with Mr. Ashe about the matter now. We must do what is best for the boy." As General Trent walked to meet Uncle Cliff, Blue Bonnet stood staring after him, her thoughts in a whirl.

"What's the matter? You look as if you had just been through an earthquake," laughed Ruth, coming up and slipping her thin hand into Blue Bonnet's.

"I think I have,—and everything is upside down." Blue Bonnet still looked dazed as she turned to go into the house.

"Come in and see Kitty. The poor child is pretty blue."

"She was pretty red when I last saw her!" laughed Blue Bonnet. "I've something here to cheer her—a message from Sandy. She snubs him dreadfully, but he seems to enjoy it."

They found all the girls gathered about Kitty's bed, evidently in the midst of a serious discussion. Silence fell as Blue Bonnet entered.

"I can see out of one eye!" Kitty announced with forced gaiety.

"Praise be!" said Blue Bonnet. "Now you can see what Sandy sent for a farewell message." She held out the envelope.

"Open it please," said Kitty. "That boy is always up to mischief and I can't take any more risks. I cut one of his dances the other evening and he vowed vengeance."

Blue Bonnet obeyed while the other girls looked on with unconcealed interest. The envelope appeared to be empty, but when it was vigorously shaken upside down, something fell on to the counterpane. They all dove for it, but it was Debby who finally caught and held it up. It was a tiny square of note-paper, in the centre of which a knot of ribbon secured something bright and shining. It was a lock of Sandy's silky red hair. Under it was written: "A coal of fire. I forgive you."

Kitty laughed for the first time since her affliction had come upon her; and the girls blessed Sandy for his nonsense.

"May I borrow my granddaughter for a few minutes?" asked the SeÑora, looking in at the door. "Blue Bonnet, I've a letter here from your Aunt Lucinda."

An odd look came into Blue Bonnet's face,—Grandmother's voice held a hint of something important. She handed Sandy's memento to Kitty and forced a smile. "Put this in your memory-book, Kitty. When Sandy is president, you can point with pride to that coal of fire—they're likely, by then, to call it 'the fire of genius!'"

When she had left the room, Kitty looked out of her one good eye with a glance intended to be solemn. "Girls, I've a presentiment."

"What about,—Sandy?" asked Sarah.

"No, you silly,—except that he'll never be president! I'm thinking about Blue Bonnet,—I was just going to tell you when she came in. I don't believe she intends to go back with us."

Kitty's words produced even more of an effect than she had expected. For several minutes no one spoke, then Ruth said half irritably:

"If you can't have pleasanter presentiments than that, Kitty, I wish you wouldn't have them."

"I can't help it," Kitty declared. "She won't say a word about it. And every time we get on to the subject, she either begins to talk about something else, or leaves the room."

"I've noticed it, too," said Sarah, quietly.

The gloom on every countenance bore silent witness to the hold Blue Bonnet had on the affections of the We are Sevens.

"Woodford will be a stupid old hole without her," Kitty declared.

"Passing over your implied compliment to us," said Debby, "I agree with you."

Grandmother handed Blue Bonnet Aunt Lucinda's letter without comment; but watched the girl's face closely as she read. A characteristic letter it was, showing the fine mind and cultivation of the writer, yet like her, too, precise and rather formal in its wording. She was in Munich, enjoying the summer music festival. Nothing very important so far, Blue Bonnet concluded, and began to breathe more easily. But over the closing pages she sobered again.

"There is a rather remarkable pianist staying at this same pension," she wrote; "and she plays for us very often. Something in the charm and delicacy of her touch makes me think of Blue Bonnet's, when she plays her little 'Ave Maria.' I have talked with her about Blue Bonnet and she thinks with me that the child must have real talent for the piano. FrÄulein Schirmer is to teach music in a school for girls in Boston, this coming winter, and I think it would be an excellent plan to place Blue Bonnet right in the school. She is old enough now to appreciate the atmosphere of culture and refinement in such a place,—I am told that the first families of Boston send their daughters there—and she could have the advantage of attending the Symphony concerts.

"Woodford has nothing much to offer in the way of musical advantages, and I think Blue Bonnet should develop her talent in this line. She could come to us for the week-end always, and in that way we should not have to part with her altogether. But we can settle the matter when we are all in Woodford once more."

Blue Bonnet sighed as she finished and let the letter drop into her lap. "When they were all in Woodford once more." So Aunt Lucinda, too, took it for granted! She stirred a trifle resentfully.

"One would think I had signed a life-contract!" she thought.

Mrs. Clyde sought her granddaughter's eye anxiously. "Well, Blue Bonnet, what are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking—not for the first time either,—of something I once said to Alec. I wished, and keep on wishing—that there were two of me,—so that one might stay here on the ranch with Uncle Cliff, while the other was with you and Aunt Lucinda in Woodford, being educated."

Grandmother smiled and sighed in the same breath. "Suppose you leave me and Uncle Clifford and Aunt Lucinda out of the matter entirely. Just think how it would have appealed to—your mother."

The blue eyes turned swiftly from her grandmother's face to gaze out across the wide sweep of prairie. There was a long silence. When Blue Bonnet faced her grandmother again, her eyes were misty.

"I wish she were here to tell me. Somehow I can't make it seem right, either way. Will you wait and let me sleep on it, Grandmother? I'll tell you, as the Mexicans say—maÑana."

"To-morrow?"

"Well, maÑana with the Mexicans means almost any time in the future, but I'll make it—to-morrow."

Mrs. Clyde was silent, but the glance that followed Blue Bonnet as she left the room, was very wistful.