Uncle Cliff winced. "None of the girls play as well as you do, Honey."
"I—I don't believe they do. But maybe, Uncle Cliff, that is a very good reason why I should go on with it. Maybe I really have talent."
"Wouldn't it be very lonesome off there in Boston? And won't it be mostly work and very little play?"
"I'm afraid it will. But, somehow, it's chiefly because it will be so much easier to stay on the ranch and be—desultory, as Aunt Lucinda says,—that I think I ought to go."
"I see, Honey. You are developing a New England conscience!"
"I wonder?" she pondered.
"I don't want you to do anything just because it's easier, Blue Bonnet," Uncle Cliff continued. "That wasn't your father's way."
"Nor your way, Uncle Cliff."
"I hope not, Blue Bonnet. That's why I'm going to stop arguing right here. It's my natural inclination to say 'stay with me, Honey, I need you.' But I know I don't,—I just want you. But what I want more is to have you do the thing that's best for Blue Bonnet Ashe,—the thing that will make you say in the end, 'I'm glad I did it!'" More moved than he cared to show, Clifford Ashe rose, and running down the veranda steps, strode off in the direction of the stable.
"Oh, dear!" thought Blue Bonnet, gazing after him. "In the language of the cowboys,—it's certainly up to me!"