Meg beamed down at the eager freckled face. “I wouldn’t miss it for worlds. Of course I will be there.” Dan, who had been standing silently at her side said: “I will come up to your cabin for you. Then you will know when we are back and ready to begin the frolic, whatever it is to be.”
“Is Jean Sawyer coming?” Meg glanced at Jane to inquire. The mountain girl noted the sudden clouding of her new friend’s eyes and although the reply was lightly given in the negative, Meg knew that something was wrong. She had been so sure that Jane and Jean liked each other especially well.
Glancing at the sun, which was nearing the zenith, she exclaimed: “I must go now; my pony has had a long walk today and I do not want him to climb too rapidly.” Then with a direct glance out of her dusky, long-lashed eyes at Dan, she said: “I’ll be ready and waiting for you when you come.”
Mrs. Bently was indeed pleased when she heard that she was to have so many hungry guests for lunch and asked if she might have one hour for preparation.
The young people were disappointed when they learned that the mail had not arrived, but they had not long to wait before the stage drew up in front of the inn. Mr. Bently went out to get the leather bag which both Jane and Merry hoped might contain something of especial interest to them.
They all crowded around the tiny window in the corner which served as postoffice and waited eagerly while the innkeeper sorted out the papers, letters and packages.
“Wall, now,” he beamed at them over his spectacles, “if here ain’t that parcel ol’ Granny Peters been waitin’ fer so long. Yarn’s in it,” he informed his amused listeners. “Red, black and yellar. Granny sends to the city for a fresh batch every summer and knits things for Christmas presents. I’ve had one o’ Granny Peters’ mufflers every year for longer than I kin recollect.” He reached again into the bag. “An’ here’s magazines enough to start a shop. Them’s for the Packard ranch. They must have a powerful lot o’ time for settin’ around readin’, them two must.” Merry was watching eagerly, for, on the very next package she was sure that she saw her name. The postmaster looked at it closely. Then he held it far off to get a different angle, evidently hoping for enlightenment. Finally he shook his head and tossed it to one side. “Reckon thar’s been a mistake as to that parcel,” he said. “Thar ain’t no Miss Marion Starr in these here parts.”
“I’m Marion Starr,” that maiden informed him, laughingly holding out her hand. But before the postmaster would give up the parcel he presented the girl with a paper to sign. “Reckon thar’s suthin’ powerful valuable in that thar box,” he said, “bein’ as it’s sent registered.”
Then he leaned on his elbows as though planning to wait until Merry had opened her package before he finished distributing the mail, but to his quite evident disappointment, the girl slipped it into her sweater coat pocket. “I know what’s in it,” she said brightly. Jane, noting the radiant happiness in her friend’s face, believed that she also knew, but her attention was attracted again to the small window near which she stood, for the postmaster was touching her arm with a long letter. “Miss Jane Abbott,” he said, adding, “Wall, golly be, you’re sort o’ popular, I reckon. Here are three letters an’ thar’s another that come in yesterday.”
“It’s Jane’s birthday,” Julie piped up informingly. A month before the older girl would have rebuked the younger for having been so familiar with one of a class far beneath her. As it was, she accepted smilingly the well meant remark. “Wall, do tell! How old be yo’, Miss Jane? Not a day over sixteen, jedgin’ by yer looks.”