And all this time, in the big front parlor, six highly-starched, immaculate young people were trying to appear interested in the decidedly perfunctory conversation Miss Clyde was endeavoring to keep up; carrying on among themselves at the same time little whispered exclamations of wonder and amusement.
Astonishment that anyone belonging to Miss Clyde could behave in such a way was only rivalled by the delightful uncertainty as to what might be to follow; and when presently Blue Bonnet, flushed, apologetic, but extremely glad to see them all, made her appearance, they received her warmly, if a little shyly.
In spite of its disastrous beginning, that tea-party was a great success,—a success due principally to Blue Bonnet herself. There was nothing stiff or formal about her; and her frank enjoyment of the society of so many girls of her own age was infectious.
Tea in Woodford was usually followed by music; and those of the girls who could play had come duly prepared. One by one, various old standbys were rendered, and then it was Blue Bonnet’s turn.
There was a laugh in the girl’s eyes as she took her place at the piano. A moment later, not a girl in the room but was beating time to the gay little tune she was playing.
Never before had such rollicking, joyous strains sounded through the sober old house. Mrs. Clyde, sitting by herself on the piazza, tapped the arm of her chair with her fan softly.
“I got that from one of the cowboys,” Blue Bonnet turned to explain; “you ought to hear him play it on his fiddle, and see the others dancing, and the camp-fire glowing.”
Six pairs of eyes were fixed on Blue Bonnet. “Oh,” Kitty cried, breathlessly, “how could you ever bear to come and leave it?—the ranch, I mean.”
Blue Bonnet’s face sobered. “Because—”
“She had to come to go to school,” Debby Slade said.