ppeared?"

Grace said she did. She wondered, too, what the other daughter was like.
Her wonder in this direction was gratified before she had been back from
her brief journey twenty minutes. While telling their companions of the
mountaineer's wife and family and the appearance of the woman and
children, a figure rose up from behind a bush and stood curiously
regarding the Overland party.

Washington discovered the newcomer and began to chatter and point.

"Don't shoot. It's a woman," cried Emma.

"No one is going to shoot," retorted Hippy hopelessly.

By this time all the girls were on their feet, gazing at the head and
shoulders of a young woman showing above the bush. Her full cheeks and
lips were red, and the black, straight hair hanging down her back
reminded the Overlanders of Indian squaws they had seen in their journey
over the Old Apache Trail. It was the caller's eyes, however, that
attracted the most attention. They were large, black and full, and one
felt that they were capable of blazing.

"Won't you come in, Miss?" urged Miss Briggs. "May I ask your name?" she
added, as the girl, whom she judged was not much past twenty years of
age, stepped out into the open.

"Ah'm Julie." That was the only information vouchsafed by the caller,
and the only words she spoke for nearly the entire half hour of her
stay. The Overland girls plied her with questions, and by a nod in
answer to their question learned that Julie was the daughter of the
woman they had called on shortly before. They called her by her first
name, though now and then Emma would address her as "Miss Thompson,"
which seemed to perplex Julie.

"My Paw mebby'll drive ye folks off. He don't like no strangers in these
parts," she finally jerked out.

"It will not be necessary. We shall be moving on in a few days," replied
Grace.

"Paw don't want no strangers," insisted the girl stubbornly. "Spec'ly
since he had er gun fight with one o' them. My gosh how them bullets did
fly. Paw got one through his stumik and had er right smart trouble with
his eatin' fer two days arter that. What you-all doin'?" she demanded,
eyeing Nora Wingate, who was making a sweater.

"Crocheting, Julie. Knitting, perhaps you call it."

"Uh-huh. My gran'ma kin beat you-all knittin'."

"Yes?" smiled Nora.

"You bet she kin. Why, whad you-all think? Gran'ma takes her knittin'
ter bed with 'er and every now and then she throws out a sock. I'll bet
a cookie you-all kain'