Kurt went down the road which Jo and Pen had taken. He felt the need of a pipe and solitude to help him figure out this puzzling problem, and soon he was sending a jet of smoke up to the branches of the tree which he had selected for a resting place.

Who was this girl whose belongings betokened money, and yet who said she had come to do plain sewing? Enlightenment came with the recollection that she had been sent by Mrs. Kingdon and was doubtless one of her protegees.

The name she had given sounded demimondish, and she was a friend of Pen's!

The thought made him wince. She had seemed to him some way isolated from her kind, with naught in common with them save her profession. To find he was mistaken brought him an unpleasant shock.

A sound of wheels around the curve; the clatter of hoofs. In a moment they came into his vision--the prancing team, the merry driver and--_the thief_. Delicate as a drop of dew, as lovely as a forest blossom, her voice, bird-like and rippling, wafted to him from the clear aromatic air, she inverted again all his theories and resolutions.

He walked toward them, his hand raised.

Jo reined in.

"Will you get out and walk up to the house with me?" Kurt asked her, the question given in the form and tone of command.

"A friend of yours is at the house," he said abruptly, when Jo had driven on and was outside of hearing.

"A friend of mine!" she repeated, losing a little of the wild rose tint in her fear that Hebler might have arrived.

"So she says. Mrs. Kingdon sent her here to sew for the children."

"How you relieve me! I was fearing it might be a man."

"Her name," he said, "is Bobbie Burr."

"What!" Her voice had a startled note. "Bobbie Burr! Oh, yes; I remember her."

"Is she a particular friend of yours?"

"I am more attracted by her than by any girl I ever knew. Let's sit down in the shade of one of the few-and-far-between trees you have up here. You were interested in my welfare when you took me from Bender, but you will be doubly interested in Bobbie when you hear her story. She is a convert far more worthy of your efforts and those of Mrs. Kingdon than I have proved to be.

"She is the type you thought I was before you s.n.a.t.c.hed me from the burning--I mean from Bender. Let me see if I can quote you correctly: 'One of the many young city girls who go wrong because they have no chance; bred in slums, ill-treated, ill-fed.' Poor Bobbie had no chance until--you'll be skeptical when I tell you how she first received her moral uplift--she had some nice clothes. Stealing was her only vice! At that, she only took enough to meet her needs; but one day she _found_ some money; quite a lot, it seemed to her. Down in her little fluttering fancy she had always had longings for a white dress--a _nice_ white dress. She had the inherent instinct for judging rightly 'what she should wear.' So, for the first time in her life she was able to be correctly and elegantly clad. The white dress she bought was simple, one of the plain but effective and expensive kind. With the wearing of this new gown there naturally came the feminine desire to be seen and admired. She didn't know where to go. She had never been a frequenter of dance halls. She knew, of course, there were few open sesames for her. She went to one where no questions are asked before admittance. Things didn't look good to her at this Hurricane Hall, and she thought her doll was filled with sawdust until the inevitable man appeared and changed her angle of vision. He was that most unusual apparition, a nice, honest man. He saw her; she saw him; after that there were no others visible in their little world.

"Within twenty-four hours he had told her of his love and asked her to marry him. Then--I tried to convince you thieves could be honest--she was brave enough to tell him what she was. He was a true knight and lover. Her confession didn't alter his feelings or his intentions; in fact, his determination to marry her was strengthened. Because she loved him very much, she ran away from him, leaving him in a strange city without even her name for a clue. But now she had a hope, a real incentive--the biggest one there is. She p.a.w.ned all the coveted clothes she had bought and went to a place far away where she could begin a new life--the life of an honest working-girl.

"In her little game with destiny, she lost out, and was apprehended for a theft of which she was entirely innocent, but her past record barred acquittal. A man was instrumental in gaining a reprieve for her, however, and she was sent away to new environment where she found friends, health and, best of all, a job.

"So the desire was born in her to turn the proverbial new leaf, not for the sake of winning her 'man,' but from the simple wish to be 'good.' I interested Mrs. Kingdon in her and told her where she was, but did not dream of such good luck for--Bobbie as to be sent up here. I know she will find happiness up here in these hills. You'll be kind to the little girl, won't you?" she pleaded. "You know you haven't much mercy for sinners, but you will see she is serious about reforming; not flippant like me. She will never yield to temptation again."

"How do you know?" he asked, looking at her keenly.

"Because," she answered softly. "She _loves_, and--the man she loves is worthy of her."

"And you think love is powerful enough to cure?"

"I think so."

"Would it cure--you?"

"I don't know," she said ingenuously. "You see I have never loved."

A fervid light smouldered in his eyes.

"Aunty Pen!"

Francis came running around the curve.

"There is a nice girl at the house. Mother sent her. She's got a boy's name--Bobbie. I like her. She does anything I tell her to."

"That's the masculine measure," she said, taking his hand and running on with him.

"Come back!" was the strident summons from Kurt.

"Stay here a moment," Pen hurriedly bade Francis.

"I want to ask you how this girl is able to have such expensive looking things--if she has only a job?"

"They were given to her."

"By the man who was instrumental in getting her reprieved? You said she was virtuous."

"Don't do the man an injustice, even if you doubt poor little Bobbie. He acted from charitable motives. He has never seen her, or tried to see her."

"Look at me, Pen!"

"I'm looking. You have the true Western eye--the eye of a sharpshooter and a--sheriff."

"The story you just told me is the story of Marta Sills. Is that _her_ name or yours?"

"It belongs to us both. Being 'particular pals,' we shared alike.

Interchange of names often comes handy with us."

"Was it you or Bobbie Burr--the girl who just came--whom Jo met in a dance hall, and took to St.--some place on Lake Michigan?"

"Dear me! You cattlemen are such gay birds when you come to a city! How can I tell how many girls Jo Gary took to a dance hall? If that St.

Something was St. Joe, he must have gone there to get married. It's what most people go there for, and probably he's no more saintly than the place is. Maybe it was named after him."

"Tell me! Was it Bobbie Burr?"

"She never mentioned Jo Gary's name to me, so how do I know. Yes, Francis; coming."

She ran fleetly on to join the boy who was impatiently calling to her.

"Marta! How the plot does thicken!" she thought as she ran a race with Francis to the house. "Now we're all here but Hebby. What next? Curtain soon, I expect. No need longer for understudies. I must start things before Kurt succ.u.mbs to her charms. That little subdued, clinging-vine air she has is most appealing to his type. He'll come to forgive _her_ anything."

"Marta," she said quickly, as she met the young girl, "come upstairs with me."

She locked the door as soon as they were in her room.

"Now tell me all about yourself and everything that has happened since I last saw you."