She was going to
start her book. She had made the acquaintance of some of the cowgirls,
and she studied them with a passionate eagerness that English literature
in the abstract had never aroused in her gentle breast.
Then she became argumentative. She contended that the beautiful lawn at
the Bijou was productive of strength for David, rest for Carol, amusement
for Julia, and literary material for her. Therefore, why not linger
after the noisy crowd had gone,--just idling on the long porches,
strolling under the great trees? And because Connie had a convincing way
about her, it was unanimously agreed that the Bijou lawn could do
everything she claimed for it, and by all means they ought to tarry a
week.
It was all settled before David and Carol learned that Prince Ingram was
tired of Frontier Days and had decided not to go on to Sterling, but
thought he too should linger, gathering up something worth while in Fort
Morgan. Carol looked at Connie reproachfully, but the little baby sister
was as imperturbable as ever.
Prince himself was all right. Carol liked him. David liked him, too.
And Julia was frankly enchanted with him and with his horse. But Connie
and Prince,--that was the puzzle of it,--Connie, fine white, immaculate
in manner, in person and in thought,--Prince, rugged and brown, born of
the plains and the mountains.
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