“I suppose,” Blue Bonnet had written, “it’s on account of everything being so different that I keep thinking of the ranch. Anyhow, I think you might write me more about it, Uncle Cliff.”
“So, my lady!” Uncle Joe chuckled.
“She seems fairly contented,” Mr. Ashe said.
Uncle Joe grunted something unintelligible.
“At least, she doesn’t say anything about wanting to come back,” Mr. Ashe went on.
“I’ve heard before that the whole point of a woman’s letter was pretty apt to lay in the postscript,” Uncle Joe remarked; “and I reckon this ain’t any exception to the rule. She’s a spunky little piece, Blue Bonnet is. Of course, she ain’t going to say she wants to come back—leastways, not yet.”
Meanwhile, the “spunky little piece” was curled up comfortably in a big armchair at one side of the fireplace in the Trent library. Opposite her sat Alec, flushed and hoarse from a cold, but otherwise quite contented. Between the two, Bob, Ben, and Solomon sprawled in lazy comfort.
Outside, the September wind drove a fierce rain against the windows, making the warmth and brightness within doubly pleasant.
The Trent household, being, with the exception of Norah, a purely masculine establishment, was in Blue Bonnet’s eyes a delightful place. “It’s so nice and untidyish,” she said now, looking about the pleasantly littered room.