"'When they left us and went into the hotel I had the queerest feeling. 'Twas just as though I had said good-by to Imogene forever--just as though she'd gone away into a different world. And the queerest part of it all was that I didn't care very much. It seemed years since I had cared for her--years since we had done things together at St. Helen's. That night after I had put Virginia to bed, and come out on the porch with Dad, a big machine flew by our house. I heard some one laugh, and knew it was Imogene. She hadn't been hurrying through; she just hadn't cared to come. I suppose it ought to have hurt me, but it didn't. I was glad she'd stopped caring, too, the way I had. Then, at least, neither of us would be hurt. The only thing I'm sorry about is that Imogene has gone into that kind of a world. I don't believe it can give the best kind of happiness, do you?

"'It's nearly church time, and I must hurry. We're all going together. It's Virginia's very first service, except for those at the Home, and I do hope she'll be good. I've been instructing her for days--telling her just what to do and what not to do. I'm afraid I'll send out many thoughts in your direction, but Miss Wallace says they're prayers anyway--that is, the kind I'd send to you, so I guess it will be all right. There's Virginia calling now.

"'Dearest love, "'DOROTHY.

"'P.S. After service. She was angelic! When she knelt and closed her eyes, she looked like one of Raphael's cherubs. Dad wiped his eyes--I saw him--and I could have cried for happiness. The sermon was on "Vigilance"--wasn't that strange? The minister spoke about watching for opportunities to serve, for in so doing, he said, we served ourselves most of all. Dad looked at me then and smiled, and we both looked at Virginia, our opportunity. She was finding _A's_ in the prayer-book.

"'This is a selfish letter--all about me--but I knew you'd want to know about your namesake. Write me right away. We'll be watching every mail.

"'DOROTHY.'"

They looked at one another with shining eyes as Priscilla folded the letter. Mary was the first to speak.

"Isn't it the loveliest thing in all the world for Dorothy to do?" she said.

"Wonderful!" cried the two who possessed a namesake.

"I think we ought to make Virginia Winthrop Richards a present," proposed Priscilla. "I never felt so important in all my life, did you, Virginia?"

"Never!" said Virginia. "Why so quiet, Vivian?"

"I was thinking about Imogene," said Vivian. "I'm wondering why I don't care much either. It's strange when I cared so much for her--only four months ago."

In their excitement over Dorothy's child, the others had for the moment forgotten Imogene.

"I guess it's because we went as far as the crossroads together,"

explained Virginia, "and then chose different paths. I feel the same way Dorothy does. I'm sorry for Imogene, but I don't feel any great loss myself."

"I propose we adjourn," said the excited Priscilla, "and go down and tell the news to Aunt Nan and Mr. Hunter. That is, if there's no more business," she added, looking toward the president.

The president declared the meeting adjourned, and they started homeward.

By a large spruce they stopped for a moment. The ground beneath the tree was a garden, glad with blossoming flowers. Virginia's gray eyes looked at them, then sought the distant mountains.

"I never thought," she said softly, "that I'd love to come up here the way I do. Of course I know Jim isn't here. He's gone on to make others happy Somewhere Else. But I like to remember how we used to climb up here and look off at the country. He always loved it so. I used to be so lonely without him, but now I'm glad--glad he's having all the wonderful things that just must happen after we--go on! That's why I like William's flowers so! They're so glad, too!"

"I like William for taking such good care of them," said Mary. "I saw him coming up here yesterday with his garden tools."

"William!" cried Virginia gladly. "Why, William's _always_ been next best to Jim!"

CHAPTER XI

"EVER VIGILANT"

"There's no reason in the world why more than three of us should go back,"

said Virginia. "I know just exactly where she left it. It's on the table just back of the jars of raspberries. All right, Vivian, if you insist and are sure you're not too tired. It's all of six miles there and back, you know. It's not a bit necessary, Carver, but we'd love to have you come if you want to. Sagebrush Point, Don--at the open place? All right, we'll be there."

"Be sure to make the Canyon Path before dusk," warned Donald. "It's bad there, you know. Signals all right? Better take my revolver. Malcolm has his."

Virginia examined the revolver before securing the holster to her saddle.

"Two, if we need you; three, if everything's all right. You probably won't hear either. We'll see you by six o'clock. Good luck!"

She turned Pedro, and, followed by Carver and Vivian, rode back up the trail, while the others kept on down the mountain side toward Sagebrush Point where they were to meet Malcolm and Aunt Nan.

They had ridden far up Bear Canyon, miles beyond the farthest bear-trap, to the Forest Ranger's cabin. The trail was wilder than six of them had ever imagined a trail could be. Sometimes it was almost obliterated, but the blaze of the rangers with its U.S. brand told them that human beings had traversed it, and that they might safely follow. At noon they had reached the cabin--a lonely eyrie looking down into the gorge of the river. Behind it unbroken forests stretched for miles.

The ranger was away upon his beat, but his door stood hospitably open, and they had gladly entered, sure that a welcome was intended. In his little kitchen they had eaten dinner, leaving some of their bacon as a gift. Then an idea had seized Aunt Nan. Why not pick some of the raspberries which grew in profusion near by, and cook a quart of them as winter preserves for the ranger? It did not take very long for nine pair of hands to pick three quarts instead of one, and within an hour, sugar having been found in the pantry, the berries were cooking on the little stove. Jars, too, were discovered, and at three o'clock when the boys had brought the horses, five cooks in khaki surveyed their gift with proud eyes. They had ridden hurriedly away, realizing that they were already late if they wanted Sagebrush Point for a camping-place; and three miles below the cabin Vivian had discovered the loss of her wrist-watch, a birthday gift from her father.

"Don't you worry a bit, Vivian," Virginia said, rea.s.suringly, as she urged Pedro up the steep trail. "We'd just as soon ride back as not, and I wouldn't have you lose the watch for the world. Of course the ranger would keep it safe for us, but there's no knowing when we could get away up here again. It's best to go now when we're only three miles away."

"I'm dead sure it's right on the table," said Carver. "I saw you put it there, Vivian, when you got ready to wash the dishes."

Carver Standish was right. The watch was on the table where she had left it. The cabin seemed more lonely than ever as they hurried away. The rush of the river hundreds of feet below, the drowsy hum of the August insects, and the sound of their horses' feet upon the stones alone broke the silence. Vivian shivered.

"I hate it here, now," she said. "Let's hurry back to the others."

But it was impossible to hurry down the steep, rocky trail. The horses were tired, and a misstep or a stumble would be dangerous. Pedro, sure of himself on any trail, led the way, and Vivian and Carver followed, weaving right and left down the mountain side. More than once Carver glanced apprehensively at his watch. It was growing late--nearly five already!--and Virginia had told Donald they would be at Sagebrush Point at six! It was impossible. They could never make it!

Vivian was worried, too. She hated the shadows that began to creep in among the trees, the lonely call of a bird in the timber, the coolness that came as the afternoon waned. She shivered again, when at the first ford, where they had separated more than an hour before, the rawhide thongs in one of her stirrups broke, and caused a second delay.

Carver's none too agile fingers laced and re-tied the thong. Virginia allowed Pedro to nibble at the quaking-asps and tried to be patient while she watched the repairing. More than once she was tempted to jump from her saddle and do the work herself, but she knew that Carver would resent the intrusion. Carver Standish III heartily disliked any intimation that he was a tenderfoot. Safe and satisfied in the citadel of New England birth and ancestry, he still was averse to any suggestion of inferiority in Wyoming. Virginia liked Carver, though she knew him far better now than she had ever dreamed she should. She liked him in spite of the tinge of sn.o.bbishness which would creep in now and then, try as he did to conceal it. She even liked him during the ten minutes he took to lace the thong when she could have done it in three.

It was growing dark when they at last swung into the easier, gra.s.s-grown trail of the lower mountains--dark and cold. The realization that they were already two miles from supper and the others, together with the knowledge that there was still the Canyon Path to cross, made them all silent and very grave. They hurried their horses through the last of the tallest timber and out upon the bare summit of a mountain, which looked down across the valley and the river to a point beyond. As they gazed, flames shot up from the point where a newly-kindled fire was welcoming the first star. Dark specks were visible about the fire--persons moving here and there. Sagebrush Point--a mile across the valley, two by the trail!

Carver looked questioningly at Virginia, and found his answer in the smile she gravely gave him. They would go no farther. Carver knew it before Virginia discovered the paper. Vivian suspected, but would not know. They sat quietly in their saddles while she rode Pedro close to a great pine which bore a ranger's sign, burned in a piece of wood.

"Two miles to Sagebrush Point," read the sign.

"A good camping-place. Dangerous trailing!"

Below the sign was a folded piece of paper, fastened by Donald's scarf-pin to the tree, and bearing Virginia's name. She read it silently and with difficulty in the fast-fading light.

"It's just as I thought," she explained. "When Donald reached here and saw what a long time it had taken, he knew we couldn't make the Point. He says not to attempt it if it's after six, and it's a quarter of seven now. I wouldn't try the Canyon Path for anything in this light, and there's no other way to go. We'll just have to camp here, that's all! We've our blankets and matches and plenty of bacon and bread, and there's a spring near by. It won't be so bad. Quite an adventure!"

Her last words were spoken in an attempt to rea.s.sure Vivian, who was staring at her--the epitome of horror.

"Camp--here--Virginia! Alone! Here! In--this--wilderness!" Vivian was monosyllabic from terror.

Carver did not share Vivian's fear, but he was a trifle overbearing in his judgment of those about the fire at Sagebrush Point.

"If Donald thought we weren't going to make it, why didn't he camp here himself?" he asked. "Of course it's all right for me, but it's rather tough on you and Vivian. I should think he'd have thought of that."

Virginia was quick to champion Donald. Indeed Carver Standish III would have given much for the place Donald held in Virginia's estimation.

"Why, Carver," she said, frank in her displeasure, "Donald's one of the most thoughtful persons in the world. Malcolm and Aunt Nan were over at Sagebrush, and he couldn't get word to them before dark. Besides, he knows I'm not afraid to camp by ourselves. They're right across on Sagebrush, and there's nothing in this world to harm us. Of course he wouldn't have gone on for anything if you hadn't been here, but he knew he could depend on you."