Peggy, as she walked at the head of her troop, tried to feel her cousin Margaret's hand in hers. Always humble, and distrustful of her own powers, she tried hard to think what Margaret would do in her place. She would tell stories, probably, wonderful stories of heroes and great deeds. Ah! but Peggy did not know the stories in the books; they never stayed by her. Well, then, she must tell what she did know! She found herself talking about her home life, the home on the great Western ranch; of her father and brothers, and the many feats in their strong, active life. Here, if she had only known it, were stories better than any in Margaret's books. How Brother Jim hunted the white wolf for three days in the mountains; how Hugh set the trap for the young grizzly, and more wonderful, how he tamed him and made him his friend and servant; how Father Montfort saved the three men who were snowed up in Desolation Gulch, and brought them out one by one on his shoulders, just as their last biscuit was gone and they had sat down to die,—on and on went the tale, for it was a story without an end. On and on went the girls, too, unconscious of their going, forgetting to think they were tired, forgetting everything save the joy of listening. The shadows were lengthening fast when Peggy, still relating, turned her face homeward, wondering with thankfulness, as she noted the position of the sun, how she had been able to take them so far without once hearing a groan or a sigh of weariness. She looked around, and saw only sparkling eyes and rosy cheeks. "A month ago," she thought, "they would have said I had almost killed them. They really are hardening, and I'm so glad!"
"Oh, go on, Peggy!" cried Rose Barclay. "You are never going to stop there! What became of the one with the wooden leg? We must know!"
On went the story, and on went the girls; the sun sank lower and lower, the shadows crept longer and longer, the air grew cool and thin with the coming night. The man with the wooden leg had chopped it up for fuel, and Father Montfort had brought him and all the others in triumph to the ranch, and set them down by the fire, when— "Oh, dear me!" cried Ethel Fair. "What a shame, girls! Here we are at the gate. I say! let's go on a little farther, Peggy."
But Peggy was wise, and knew when to stop; besides, now that she was near the house again, the anxiety and distress that had been lulled by the walk and the story-telling, came back like a flood, and filled her heart. They were crossing the lawn; what tidings would greet them at the door? Some one was standing there now; Miss Cortlandt, was it? no, Miss Russell herself. She was waiting for them with the news; would it be good or bad? Peggy hung back for an instant; then she walked steadily forward. "Quiet, girls!" was all she said. "I think Miss Russell has something to tell us."
They were at the foot of the steps now; and Miss Russell was coming down to meet them, running, the grave and stately woman, to meet them, like a girl. Her hands were outstretched, her face was all aglow with joy, the glad tears ran down her cheeks.
"It is over!" she whispered. "Softly, my dear children. Come softly in. The crisis is over, and the child will live! Come with me, and let us thank God together!"