"You have been wonderfully good to us," she began chokingly, "and perhaps at some time we may be able to show you our great appreciation. But tonight, tonight—" and Jean could get no further. Then, summoning more strength of character, she continued, "I wonder if you would mind telling us your name? You must already know most of our history, as we have talked so much of ourselves in speaking of Frieda."
For a moment Jean's friend appeared to be hesitating. Perhaps she did not wish to talk of herself, for she was now looking as weary as Ruth and the Ranch girls.
"You must not think I am not a fellow countrywoman when I tell you my name," she replied slowly, and with the slightly foreign accent which the girls had neglected to notice in their distress. "I was once a western girl myself, oh, many years ago, in a little mining town. So I was able to recognize you as soon as I saw and heard you talking. Now I am an Italian, however, or at least my husband is. My name is Beatrice, the Princess Beatrice Colonna."
Jean actually gasped out loud. Here she had been talking to a real live Princess without knowing it, when in her most romantic moments she had only conceived of a literary one.
If they had not been in such great trouble over Frieda, how thrilling this meeting would have seemed! Yet, except for their sorrow, they might never have spoken to the Princess. And now here she was standing right in their midst talking just like any one else!
A moment later and she had vanished with these parting words:
"Promise me not to be too unhappy while I am gone. And perhaps when I return we may have devised some better scheme for finding your little Frieda."