"That's just like you, you unselfish old dear! But Ruth told me that it was the next best thing to riding herself, to see you on Comanche."
"Did she?" asked Sarah; and then hid her face in the trunk so that Blue Bonnet should not see how pleased she was.
They were to leave in the morning, and trunks were to be sent to the station this very afternoon. Already Uncle Joe was hovering about, rope in hand, waiting to give the final touch to the baggage. He had found it necessary to keep very busy these last few days.
"We might have seen this coming," he said disconsolately to Mr. Ashe, as the latter sat smoking a solitary pipe on the front veranda. "Let young folks get runnin' with young folks, and they're never again contented alone."
"It isn't young folks that's taking Blue Bonnet this time, Joe." Mr. Ashe glanced in to where a silver head showed just inside the window. "Her girl never went back to her from Texas, and I reckon it's only right she should have her share of Elizabeth's daughter."
Uncle Joe looked sober. "You're right, Cliff." Then, as if determined to look on the bright side of things, "We'll have the boy for company."
"Yes, and there'll be more letters. She'll tell him things she wouldn't be likely to write to two old fellows." And with this crumb of comfort the "two old fellows" were forced to content themselves.
Blue Bonnet was up at daybreak next morning, and, sitting on the top rail of the pasture fence, watched the sun rise out of the prairie. Don and Solomon eyed her expectantly.
"Our last sunrise on the ranch, Solomon, for ever and ever so long,—we're off to Massachusetts this very morning. And it's a Pullman for me and a baggage-car for you—no private car this time! But I'll come and see you at every station and see that you have exercise. Poor dog, I wonder how you'll like the 'resumption of discipline'—as Alec calls it? We're going back to Aunt Lucinda, you know, Solomon, and Aunt Lucinda's strong for discipline."
Her eyes wandered off toward the distant hills and then away across the wind-swept, rolling prairie. How would it seem to be back again among houses, tall houses with trim door-yards and clipped hedges,—houses so close one couldn't throw a stone without "breaking a window or a tradition"—?