It was ridiculous for Olive to have been so frightened with so slight cause, yet the thought that some one might be in pursuit of her filled her with a nervous terror. To the people not afflicted with timidity, most fears are ridiculous, and yet no single weakness is harder to overcome. Of the four ranch girls, Olive was the only timid one, but before one criticizes her, remember her childhood. Now with her heart pounding and her breath coming in short gasps, she quickened her pace into a run, recalling at the same time their chaperon’s forgotten instruction that she must no longer expect the happy freedom of their western lands. But the faster the frightened girl ran the faster the traveler back of her appeared to be following. And now Olive dared not hide deeper in the woods, knowing that the hour was growing late and that any added delay would make her late for breakfast.

Many times in her life would her Indian knowledge of the woods save her in emergencies of this sort, so in another moment she remembered that an Indian never runs away from his pursuer, but hides until his enemy has passed. Behind a low clump of laurel bushes the girl hid herself, crouching low and expecting each instant to see a tramp or an armed gamekeeper, whose business it was to keep intruders out of private property, savagely on the lookout for her.

Her pursuer did come on without hesitation and finally arrived just opposite Olive’s hiding place, but then it was the girl in hiding who suddenly sprang to her feet, startling the newcomer. For the enemy she had so dreaded was only another girl like herself with a smile on her face and a bundle of books under her arm. She was ten years older perhaps, yet she looked not unlike Jacqueline Ralston before her illness; her eyes were blue instead of gray, but she had the same bright bronze hair and firm line to her chin and the same proud way of holding up her head.

“Who or what are you?” she asked Olive, “a wood nymph living in this underbrush, for your clothes are of so nearly the same color that I did not see you at first.”

Olive, who was wearing a dark olive-green coat suit and a tam-o’-shanter of velvet of the same shade, shook her head. “I am one of the new girls from Primrose Hall and I have been out for a walk, but as I am not very familiar with these woods, I am not just sure where I am. Would you mind—” Her request came to an abrupt end because of the expression of surprise and disapproval on the older girl’s face.

“A student from Primrose Hall and outdoors alone at this hour of the morning! How on earth did Miss Winthrop happen to give you permission?” she asked in the positive fashion that Olive was to learn to know so well later on.

The first consciousness of possible wrong-doing now swept over the truant. Could it be that in taking a walk without asking permission she had broken a rule of her new school? The idea seemed ridiculous to Olive, and yet—were not all things different than in the old days? “I am so sorry, but no one gave me permission to take a walk. Was it necessary to ask?” she inquired. “You see, we only arrived at Primrose Hall yesterday and we—I—why, we often stay out hours before breakfast at home, riding over the plains!”

Olive’s innocence of offense and her distress were so plain to the older girl that straightway she slipped her arm through hers and without delay hurried her along toward school, talking as she went.

“I am Jessica Hunt, the teacher of English and elocution at Primrose Hall, and I have been spending the night with some friends.” Jessica gave a reassuring pressure to the hand in hers. “You must not be frightened, child, if Miss Winthrop seems rather terrifying on your return. I used to be a pupil at Primrose Hall before I started in with the teaching and I’m really very fond of her. Miss Winthrop isn’t so severe as she looks, but I expect I had better tell you that it is after breakfast time now and, as the school girls are never allowed to go out alone and never without permission, why she may scold you a bit.”

If only she might at this moment have dropped down in the path to weep like a naughty child about to be punished for a fault, Olive would have felt it a great relief, and only the thought of her age prevented her doing this. Could she ever live through the embarrassment of facing fifty strange girls, more than half a dozen teachers and Miss Winthrop while she was being reprimanded. Why, yesterday just on being introduced to Miss Winthrop, with Ruth and Jean and Frieda with her for protection, had she not felt as tongue-tied and frightened as a silly baby? And now must she face this stern woman alone and under the shadow of her displeasure?

Never as long as she lived (and the circumstances of Olive Ralston’s life were always unusual and romantic) would she ever forget the next half hour’s experience at Primrose Hall, nor the appearance of the great hall as she entered it, with girls and teachers grouped about, and towering above everything and everybody, the tall, commanding presence of its principal, Miss Katherine Winthrop.

Almost without her own volition Olive found herself standing in front of Miss Winthrop, Jessica’s arm still through hers, heard the teacher of mathematics say, “Here is your new runaway pupil with Miss Hunt,” and realized that this teacher, whom she had disliked yesterday because she wore round spectacles and dressed like a man, wished not so much to get her into trouble as to involve Jessica in her disgrace.

But Jessica was not in the least disturbed, being the only teacher at Primrose Hall not afraid of its owner. “Miss Winthrop,” she now began coaxingly, “I have brought our new girl home. She was only taking a walk in the woods near by, but I am sure she would rather explain to you herself that in going out without permission she did not know she was breaking a school rule. You see, she has lived always in the West and been accustomed to such perfect freedom—” Jessica was continuing her case for the defendant, realizing that Olive was still too frightened to speak for herself. But suddenly Miss Hunt was thrust aside by a small, plump person, with the longest yellow braids and the biggest blue eyes in the school, and without the least regard for either teachers or principal, Frieda Ralston now flung her arms about Olive.

“For goodness sake, why didn’t you tell Jean and me where you were going?” she demanded. “We have been so frightened about you.”

And then before Olive could reply, another girl stood at her other side, a girl with dark brown hair, a pale skin and demure brown eyes, whose nose had the faintest, most delicious tilt at the end of it. Jean Bruce said nothing, but she looked ready and anxious to defend her friend against all the world.

Surrounding the little group of ranch girls and the three teachers were numbers of other students, most of whom were casting glances of sympathy at the new pupil who had so soon fallen into disgrace. Breakfast just over, they were supposedly on their way upstairs to their own rooms, but Olive’s entrance with Jessica had interrupted them and until Miss Winthrop spoke no one had stirred.

“You may go to your own apartments now, girls,” she said quietly. “Miss Ralston will explain her absence to me in my private study.” As her words and look included Jean and Frieda, they also were compelled to follow the other students up the broad mahogany stairs, leaving Olive to face her fate alone. Only one girl with short curly hair and a freckled nose actually had the courage to stop in passing and whisper to the offender:

“Fare thee well, light of my life, farewell. For crimes unknown you go to a dungeon cell,” she chanted. Then while Olive was trying to summon a smile in return, a beautiful girl with pale blonde hair joined both of them, and drawing the other girl away, said loud enough for a dozen persons near by to overhear: “Oh, do come on upstairs, Gerry. When will you learn not to be friendly to objectionable persons whom no one knows anything about?” And so cool and indifferent did her expression appear as she made her unkind speech that it was hard to believe she understood that her words could be overheard. But Olive Ralston heard them and in spite of her gentleness never in after years forgot or forgave them.

A minute or so later, when everybody else had disappeared, Olive found herself alone in Miss Winthrop’s study, seated in a comfortable leather chair facing a desk at which Miss Winthrop was writing.

“I will talk to you in a few minutes,” she had said as they entered the room, and at first the prisoner had felt that waiting to hear her sentence would be unendurable. Of course she would be expelled from Primrose Hall; Olive had no other idea. And of course Ruth and Jack would understand and forgive her, but there would be no going back on her part to be a burden and disgrace to them. Somehow she must find work to support herself in the future!

But as time passed on and Miss Winthrop continued with her writing, by and by Olive’s attention wandered from her own sorrows and she busied herself in studying her judge’s face. Miss Winthrop’s expression was not so stern in repose, for though the lines about her mouth were severe and her nose aquiline, her forehead was high and broad and her dark eyes full of dignity and purpose. And then her figure. Olive felt obliged to admit that though she was taller and larger than almost any woman she had known, her grace and dignity were most unusual and the severity of her simple black silk gown showed her to great advantage.

Weary of scrutinizing the older woman, Olive’s eyes next traveled idly to the top of Miss Winthrop’s desk, resting there for an eager moment, while in her interest she forgot everything else. For the first time in her life this young girl, who had seen nothing of the World of art, had her attention arrested by one of the world’s great masterpieces.

On Miss Winthrop’s desk there stood a cast of an heroic figure of a woman with broad, beautiful shoulders and wonderful flowing draperies. The figure was without head or arms and yet was so inspiring that, without realizing it, Olive gave a sigh of delight.

Straightway Miss Winthrop glanced up. “You like my cast?” she asked quickly. “Do you know that it is a copy of the statue of ‘The Winged Victory,’ ‘The Nike’? The real statue now stands at the top of the stairs in the Louvre in Paris and there you will probably see it some day. But I like to keep the figure here as a kind of inspiration to me and to my girls. For to me ‘The Victory’ means so much more than the statue of a woman. It stands, I think, as the emblem of the superwoman, what all we women must hope to be some day. See the beauty and dignity of her, as though she had turned her back on all sin and injustice and was moving forward into a new world of light. I like to believe that the splendid lost arms of the Nike carried the world’s children in them.”

Of course Miss Winthrop realized that she was talking above the head of her new pupil, but she wished an opportunity to study the girl’s face. Now she saw by its sudden glow and softening that she had caught at least a measure of her meaning.

“Girls, girls, girls.” Sometimes Miss Winthrop felt that the world held nothing else and that she knew all the varieties, and yet one could never be too sure, for here before her was a new type unlike all the others and for some reason at this moment she attracted her strongly.

To Miss Winthrop alone at Primrose Hall Ruth Drew had thought it wise to confide as much as they knew of Olive’s extraordinary history, pledging her to secrecy. Now to herself Miss Winthrop said: “It is utterly ridiculous to believe this child has Indian blood, for there is absolutely nothing in her appearance to indicate it. I believe that her history is far more curious than her friends suppose.”

But to Olive, of course, she said nothing of this, for after her first speech her manner appeared to change entirely. Sitting very erect in her chair, she turned upon her pupil “You may go,” she said coldly, “for I understand that by your action this morning you did not deliberately intend to break one of my rules. But kindly be more careful in the future, for I am not accustomed to overlooking disobedience, whatever its cause.”

With a sigh of relief Olive straightway fled into the hall, wondering if she could ever like this Miss Winthrop, who could be so stern one moment and so interesting the next. For her own part Olive felt that she much preferred their former chaperon, Ruth Drew, for if Ruth were less handsome and perhaps not so cultivated, she was at least more human. If only they were all back at the Rainbow Ranch with Ruth to scold and pet them for their misdoings all in the same breath.