By the wagon that stood nearest to the river’s bank a little group of four people were seated; three women and one man. The man was called Grierson; one of the women, the elder one, was his wife; the other, who resembled her strongly in features, was her daughter, Eunice by name. The mother and daughter were dark eyed and dark haired, presenting a decided contrast to the last of the group, who was a young girl, who did not look over sixteen. She had one of those sweet, innocent, childish faces that win favor at the first glance—a face once seen, never to be forgotten—there was something so odd, so striking about it. The face was little, but a perfect oval, with a high, white forehead, dark-blue eyes, full of life and expression, dimpled cheeks, slightly tinged with a crimson flush, that relieved the white, pearly skin, a little chin exquisitely shaped, full, pouting lips, red as ripe cherries, a long, straight nose, and then, the great charm of the head—the red-gold hair that hung in profusion, in little tangled ringlets, clinging elfishly together almost down to her little shapely waist. In figure she was a little sprite of a girl, exquisitely proportioned, with the daintiest little feet and hands. In brief, she was innocence and grace personified. Such was Leona Vender, the fairy, who had tangled up the honest heart of Dave Reed, the guide, in the silken meshes of her red-gold hair.
The Grierson family were neighbors of the Venders in Greenfield, and hearing how well Daniel Vender had made out in the Far West, had determined to try their fortune in Montana and had made preparations so as to set out at the same time as Leona. Leona of course was very glad of their company, particularly as Eunice, the daughter, had been her school companion and was her dearest friend.
Leona, although looking like a mere child of fifteen, was in reality nineteen years of age. Eunice, her friend, was one year older.
“Well, wife,” said Grierson, rising from his seat near the fire, “I guess I shall go to bed. We start at four in the morning, and as we make a long march to-morrow, we shall need all the rest we can get. Girls, don’t sit up late.”
“No, father,” answered Eunice, speaking for both.
Grierson and his wife retired to the shelter of the wagon.
Leona was gazing dreamily out upon the surface of the rolling river, whereon the moonbeams danced like so many silver sprites. Eunice noticed her abstraction.
“A penny for your thoughts, Leona!” she cried, stroking down the curling locks of her friend’s hair.
Leona started a little; a faint smile came to her lips, as she answered in a low voice:
“Perhaps my thoughts are not worth a penny.”