Sarah looked her approval of this decision. "I'll help you,--let's do
it in my room."

Relief on Blue Bonnet's part quite crowded out surprise. "Then you
don't mind if I leave you to yourselves?" she asked.

"We wouldn't get much done if you didn't," Amanda replied with more
frankness than tact.

Blue Bonnet had found solitude glorious in the half-hour before
breakfast, but now it had lost its charm: joy in her heart had given
place to hate. Not hatred of the old life, such as had driven her to
pastures new; not hatred of Texas and "all it stood for"--as she had
once passionately declared to Uncle Cliff. This time the object of her
deep and bitter feeling was--herself. She had been rude to a guest in
her own house. She had seen one of her best friends risk her life and
had made no move to prevent it. She had been the cause of her
grandmother's receiving a shock which, at her time of life, might
prove very serious. And all this in spite of having lived for nearly a
year with two such perfect gentlewomen as Aunt Lucinda and Grandmother
Clyde. In spite of her boasted loyalty to the "We are Sevens." In
spite of her promise to her aunt to care tenderly for her grandmother
and bring her back safely to Woodford.

She had wandered aimlessly outdoors and now flung herself face down on
the Navajo under the big magnolia. "It's no use,--I reckon it's the
same old thing. I'm not an Ashe clear through." With the thought came
swift tears.

Her head lay against something hard and unyielding; and after her
first grief had spent itself, she put up her hand to push away the
object--but grasped it instead. It was a book; opening her tear-wet
reddened eyes Blue Bonnet saw that it was a volume of her
grandmother's favorite Thoreau. It lay just where Mrs. Clyde had
dropped it the day before when she had sprung up at Debby's frightened
cry.

She dried her eyes and sat up. Leaning against the low, wicker chair,
that was her grandmother's chosen seat, she slowly turned the leaves
of the well-worn volume, her thoughts more on the owner of the book
than on its author. All at once her glance was caught and held by
something that seemed an echo of the cry that kept welling up from her
own unhappy heart. It was a prayer, only ten short lines, and she read
them with growing wonder:

"Great God! I ask thee for no meaner pelf
Than that I may not disappoint myself;
That in my striving I may soar as high
As