The We are Sevens were packing. An open trunk blocked each aisle between the six beds in the nursery; in Sarah's room two more were standing, half-filled, one reflecting the neatness and order of its owner, the other bearing silent witness to the fact that it belonged to Blue Bonnet Ashe.

"What are you doing with that old stick, Blue Bonnet?" asked Sarah, as she carefully folded her riding-skirt and laid tissue paper between the folds.

"Old stick, indeed! That's the alpenstock Knight cut for me and Sandy carved,—I've sawed off about six inches of it, though it broke my heart to do it. It's one of my dearest treasures and I'm going to take it to Woodford if I have to carry it all the way!" Blue Bonnet declared vigorously.

"I don't see anything so wonderful about it," Sarah returned. "There are plenty of old sticks just like it to be had around Woodford."

Blue Bonnet lifted indignant eyes. "As if any old Woodford stick could mean as much as this one. Why, this has the initials of every one in both camps carved on it, and every inch of it represents a good time. You've no sentiment, Sarah."

"I certainly haven't enough sentiment to make me rumple my best white dress with a clumsy old stick," Sarah replied.

"I reckon it ought to have gone in with my shoes, but it's too late now. How you do fuss over that riding-skirt, Sarah!"

"Well, if you want to know it, I've a lot of sentiment about that skirt. I wish I could take Comanche along, too."

Here Blue Bonnet amazed Sarah by jumping up and giving her a hug. "Oh, Sarah, I do love you for saying that! If you had been reconciled to riding that same old poke you had last year I'd have been so—disgusted. Won't the livery-man in Woodford open his eyes when Miss Blake demands a 'horse with some go in him'—! The inhabitants of the town will get a few thrills too, I reckon."

"Do you think it will be proper for us to ride there the way we ride here?" Sarah asked eagerly.

"Astride? We'll make it proper! It's the only humane way, Uncle says—a side-saddle is a downright cruelty. And I don't see why a parson's daughter shouldn't set the fashion."

"Then Ruth will get a chance to wear her riding-skirt after all—her heart will be stronger after a while. I've hated to ride when she couldn't, but she has insisted upon our going."

"That's just like you, you unselfish old dear! But Ruth told me that it was the next best thing to riding herself, to see you on Comanche."

"Did she?" asked Sarah; and then hid her face in the trunk so that Blue Bonnet should not see how pleased she was.

They were to leave in the morning, and trunks were to be sent to the station this very afternoon. Already Uncle Joe was hovering about, rope in hand, waiting to give the final touch to the baggage. He had found it necessary to keep very busy these last few days.

"We might have seen this coming," he said disconsolately to Mr. Ashe, as the latter sat smoking a solitary pipe on the front veranda. "Let young folks get runnin' with young folks, and they're never again contented alone."

"It isn't young folks that's taking Blue Bonnet this time, Joe." Mr. Ashe glanced in to where a silver head showed just inside the window. "Her girl never went back to her from Texas, and I reckon it's only right she should have her share of Elizabeth's daughter."

Uncle Joe looked sober. "You're right, Cliff." Then, as if determined to look on the bright side of things, "We'll have the boy for company."

"Yes, and there'll be more letters. She'll tell him things she wouldn't be likely to write to two old fellows." And with this crumb of comfort the "two old fellows" were forced to content themselves.

Blue Bonnet was up at daybreak next morning, and, sitting on the top rail of the pasture fence, watched the sun rise out of the prairie. Don and Solomon eyed her expectantly.

"Our last sunrise on the ranch, Solomon, for ever and ever so long,—we're off to Massachusetts this very morning. And it's a Pullman for me and a baggage-car for you—no private car this time! But I'll come and see you at every station and see that you have exercise. Poor dog, I wonder how you'll like the 'resumption of discipline'—as Alec calls it? We're going back to Aunt Lucinda, you know, Solomon, and Aunt Lucinda's strong for discipline."

Her eyes wandered off toward the distant hills and then away across the wind-swept, rolling prairie. How would it seem to be back again among houses, tall houses with trim door-yards and clipped hedges,—houses so close one couldn't throw a stone without "breaking a window or a tradition"—?

Some one was whistling "All the Blue Bonnets are over the Border." She looked up as Alec came towards her.

"Do I intrude upon a solemn hour?" he asked.

"The solemn hour has ticked its last second. I've said good-bye to everything and everybody,—except Texas and Massachusetts. Come with me to see those infants."

Hardly infants any longer, however. Long-tailed, with erect silky ears and coats that stood out shaggily from their fattening sides, the coyotes were fast growing into big, clumsy dogs.

"You'll look after them, won't you, Alec?" Blue Bonnet asked anxiously.

"That I will," he promised.

"And you'll write me often about—everything? And see that Uncle Cliff doesn't smoke too much, and that Uncle Joe takes his rheumatism medicine—"

"Trust me!" Alec knew better than to smile at such a moment. "And in turn, Blue Bonnet, you'll give an eye to Grandfather, won't you?"

They shook hands on it solemnly, and went in to breakfast.

Kitty, her face restored to its usual milky-whiteness, and looking very pretty in her jaunty travelling-suit, met them at the door. Peering over her shoulder stood Ruth—a sunburned Ruth with bright eyes and a rounder curve to her cheek than it had worn two weeks before.

"We were afraid you had decided to run off and hide at the last minute," said Kitty, slipping her arm around Blue Bonnet as if determined not to risk losing her a second time.

"I was only—saying good-bye," said Blue Bonnet soberly.

"Blue Bonnet is like more than one famous prima donna," said Alec, "she has made half a dozen 'positively last' farewell tours!"

They were off at last. Distributed equally between the buckboard and one of the farm-wagons, the We are Sevens, Grandmother Clyde, General Trent and Uncle Joe went ahead. Blue Bonnet, Alec, and Uncle Cliff followed on horseback.

As they neared the bridge Blue Bonnet drew rein, and, turning in the saddle, glanced back for a last look at the weather-stained old ranch-house. The cowboys and most of the Mexicans, who had gathered to say good-bye to the SeÑorita and her "amigos" from Massachusetts, were already scattering about the work of the day. But in the doorway the faithful Benita still stood, waving her apron.

Blue Bonnet's eyes filled.

"Good-bye, old house, good-bye, Benita," she said, and then added softly: "Hasta la vista!"