"She's certainly at her best."
"Of course, the director saw her possibilities and has brought out all her best points. How pretty her hair is,—loose, like that."
"Yes, she's a real beauty,—of the true breezy, Western type. But, Mona, what will Bill say? I do believe I shall feel more lenient about it all than he will! He is conservative, you know, for all his Western bringing up. Oh, my gracious, Mona, what's she doing now?"
"She'll kill herself with that wild horse! She never can get on his back!"
In a state of great excitement, they watched Azalea's skilful management of the pony and clutched each other's hands in speechless fear as she tore through the gale to rescue her brother's child.
And then—when at last Azalea emerged from the tumbled-down ruin of the little old house, with a baby in her arms, Patty gave a cry of startled fear, and then clapped her hand over her mouth, lest her dismay be too evident to those sitting near by.
"Mona!" she whispered, "it's Fleurette!"
"No! I don't believe it! You can't tell,—such a little baby—they all look alike,—you're imagining, Patty—"
"It is! it is! That's where they went when Azalea took Baby off for a whole day,—and two or three times for an afternoon or a morning! Oh, I can't stand it!"
Patty buried her face in her hands and refused to look up while Azalea rode the galloping horse, with the child held fast in one arm.