“She’s doing remarkably well in spite of the trying weather, but I have had to keep her very quiet,” said the manager, regarding the ninepin critically.

“Ess,” said Mary quickly, “It’s just the same with Johnny Dear; his cough is f’ightful at nights.  But Misery’s all right.  I’ve just been to see her.”

“There’s a good deal of scarlet fever around,” continued the manager with quiet concern, “and we can’t be too careful.  But I shall take her for a little run down the line tomorrow.”

The eyes of Mary sparkled and overflowed like blue water.  Then there was a kiss, a little laugh, a shy glance at the two curious strangers, the blue pinafore fluttered away, and the colloquy ended.  She was equally attentive in her care of the others, but the rag baby “Gloriana,” who had found a home in Jim Carter’s cabin at the Ridge, living too far for daily visits, was brought down regularly on Saturday afternoon to Mary’s house by Jim, tucked in asleep in his saddle bags or riding gallantly before him on the horn of his saddle.  On Sunday there was a dress parade of all the dolls, which kept Mary in heart for the next week’s desolation.

But there came one Saturday and Sunday when Mary did not appear, and it was known along the road that she had been called to San Francisco to meet an aunt who had just arrived from “the States.”  It was a vacant Sunday to “the boys,” a very hollow, unsanctified Sunday, somehow, without that little figure.  But the next, Sunday, and the next, were still worse, and then it was known that the dreadful aunt was making much of Mary, and was sending her to a grand school—­a convent at Santa Clara—­where it was rumored girls were turned out so accomplished that their own parents did not know them.  But we knew that was impossible to our Mary; and a letter which came from her at the end of the month, and before the convent had closed upon the blue pinafore, satisfied us, and was balm to our anxious hearts.  It was characteristic of Mary; it was addressed to nobody in particular, and would—­but for the prudence of the aunt—­have been entrusted to the post office open and undirected.  It was a single sheet, handed to us without a word by her father; but as we passed it from hand to hand, we understood it as if we had heard our lost playfellow’s voice.

“Ther’s more houses in ’Frisco than you kin shake a stick at and wimmens till you kant rest, but mules and jakasses ain’t got no sho, nor blacksmiffs shops, wich is not to be seen no wear.  Rapits and Skwirls also bares and panfers is on-noun and unforgotten on account of the streets and Sunday skoles.  Jim Roper you orter be very good to Mizzery on a kount of my not bein’ here, and not harten your hart to her bekos she is top heavy—­which is ontroo and simply an imptient lie—­like you allus make.  I have a kinary bird wot sings deliteful—­but isn’t a yellerhamer sutch as I know, as you’d think.  Dear Mister Montgommery, don’t keep Gulan Amplak to mutch