he hardships and dangers she had withstood; of lonely winter days in a
sod hut, and of frightful perils from Indians. She seemed so little
someway sitting there, so frail and wrinkled in the big chair. It was
almost incredible that she had lived through such terrible things. They
longed to hear the story of it all from her own lips. Virginia's recital
was thrilling enough! What then must Aunt Deborah's be?

But Aunt Deborah was in no haste to talk about herself! She was far more
interested in Virginia's friends--their respective homes and
families--their school life and their plans and dreams for the future.
Somehow the Vigilantes found it the easiest thing in the world to tell
Aunt Deborah their ambitions. Aunt Nan found it easy, too, to speak of
Virginia's mother to this dear old lady who had known and loved her.
Virginia held Aunt Nan's hand close in her own as they heard Aunt Deborah
tell of Mary Webster's coming to Wyoming; then a far rougher land than
now; of her brave fight against homesickness; of her transformation of the
Buffalo Horn School; and, finally, of the fierce struggle within herself
over whether she should return to Vermont or stay to marry a Wyoming
ranchman.

"My nephew John," finished Aunt Deborah proudly. "A good man. None other
than a good man could have won Mary Webster."

"Oh, I'm so glad she stayed!" cried Aunt Nan, a big lump in her throat and
her eyes brimming with tears. "I'm so glad--Aunt Deborah!" She took one of
the little old lady's hands in hers. "We're all together now," she said,
"New England and the West. There's no difference any longer, is there,
Virginia?"

"No, Aunt Nan," said Virginia, choking down the lump in her own throat.
"There's not a bit of difference. And somehow I'm sure Mother knows.
Aren't you, Aunt Deborah?"

"Something inside of me says that she does," said Aunt Deborah softly.
"You see, dears, even Heaven can't blot out the lovely things of earth! At
least, that's how it seems to me!"

A moment later, and Mr. Hunter came around the corner of the porch.

"John," cried Aunt Deborah gayly, "don't let's worry one bit about this
old world! With these young folks to write the books, and teach the
schools, and take care of the homeless babies, we're safe for years to
come! Come and tell me all about the wheat."

So the morning passed, and at noon Malcolm and Donald, Jack and Carver
rode over for dinner, and for Aunt Deborah's stories, which Virginia had
promise