Blue Bonnet’s eyes were wet. And she had said she hated the ranch—had asked not to be called Blue Bonnet! How the memory of those hasty, thoughtless words hurt!
“Elizabeth!”
The girl started, and looked around.
Mrs. Clyde stood in the open doorway. “My dear, do you know how late it is?”
“Late!”
“It is after half-past eleven.”
And the rule was that Blue Bonnet’s light must be out by ten. “And I thought I had reformed!” Blue Bonnet said. “But, Grandmother, I did make myself get all ready for bed first. Well, I reckon you’ll just have to scold me.”
“It is too late even for that,” Mrs. Clyde answered, and hurried the girl into bed. Bending in the dark to kiss her, she said softly, “Good-night, little Blue Bonnet.”
Blue Bonnet woke the next morning with the idea firmly fixed in her mind that the only thing for her to do was to write to her uncle, confessing frankly how honestly she regretted those hasty words of hers, and how very far she was from hating the ranch and everything connected with it.