“I’ve got to know!” cried The Fox. “You must tell me. Does the—the poor fellow say his name is Cox?”
“Jest the same as yourn, Miss,” remarked Old Bill, watching her closely. “Letters and deeds all to ‘John Cox.’”
“I know it! I feared it all along!” cried The Fox, wringing her hands. “I saw him in the cañon when he shot the bear and he looked so much like John——”
“He’s related to you, then, Miss?” asked the doctor.
“He’s my brother—I know he is!” cried Mary, and burst into tears.
CHAPTER XXV—AT THE OLD RED MILL AGAIN
The mist hovered over the river as though loth to uncover the dimpling current; yet the rising sun was insistent—its warm, soft September rays melting the jealous mist and uncovering, rod by rod, the sleeping stream. Ruth, fresh from her bed and looking out of the little window of her old room at the Red Mill farmhouse, thought that, after all, the scene was quite as soothing and beautiful as any of the fine landscapes she had observed during her far-western trip.
For the Briarwood Hall girls were back from their sojourn at Silver Ranch. They had arrived the night before. Montana, and the herds of cattle, and the vast cañons and far-stretching plains, would be but a memory to them hereafter. Their vacation on the range was ended, and in another week Briarwood Hall would open again and lessons must be attended to.
Jane Ann Hicks would follow them East in time to join the school the opening week. Ruth looked back upon that first day at school a year ago when she and Helen Cameron had become “Infants” at Briarwood. They would make it easier for Jane Ann, remembering so keenly how strange they had felt before they attained the higher classes.
The last of the mist rolled away and the warm sun revealed all the river and the woods and pastures beyond. Ruth kissed her hand to it and then, hearing a door close softly below-stairs, she hurried her dressing and ran down to the farmhouse kitchen. The little, stooping figure of an old woman was bent above the stove, muttering in a sort of sing-song refrain: