Perhaps Mrs. Bruce and her son would not remember her at all; but she could not expect to escape Betsy Foster’s recognition. So she lay there awake; at one moment longing for Mrs. Pogram’s kindly, invertebrate protection, and wishing that Mrs. Bruce had never opened to her another world; and again feeling the fire of ambition to repay that lady every cent she had ever spent upon her. Rosalie’s color pressed high as she imagined Mrs. Bruce’s amazed scorn that the talents in which she had at least for a time believed, had carried their possessor no higher as yet than to be a waitress—a heaver, according to Miss Hickey—in the Yellowstone. The girl must at last have dozed; for she shortly experienced a vigorous shaking from her companion. “Here, here, hustle!” exclaimed Miss Hickey, not unkindly. Rosalie opened her eyes with such bewilderment that her companion laughed. “Come on, blue eyes. You look like a baby. Get into your duds. We’re off for Norris Basin, worse luck.” The sight of Miss Hickey’s readjusted pompadour gave Rosalie a realizing sense of the situation. “Oh, Miss Hickey,” she exclaimed, as she hurried to the washstand, “are many people lay-overs?” “Oh, you’ve got them on the brain, have you?” asked the other, proceeding with her own toilet. “Not many, ’cause it costs too much.” “I saw some people here last night who have lots of money—oh, lots and lots! Shouldn’t you think they’d stay?” “H’m. I only _hope_ they will,” rejoined Miss Hickey, “as long as we’re going. The crowds are fierce.” “I do hope they will!” Rosalie’s echo was fervent. She almost summoned courage to tell her aggressive companion the situation; but one glance at the young woman’s coiffure, which was now receiving the addition of a bunch of curls, arrested her. Miss Hickey regarded her companion sharply. “You ain’t a heaver all the year,” she remarked tentatively, “or else you wouldn’t be afraid o’ those rich folks. There’s the tips, you know.” Rosalie was silent. “Perhaps you was their waitress and ran off to see the world without giving notice.” “No, I wasn’t that; but I—I know them, and—” The speech drifted into silence. “You know rich folks, do you? Lucky you.” “Not exactly. They—she—” stammered Rosalie, “they helped—educate me.” “Oh, you’re educated, are you?” retorted Miss Hickey, giving her coiffure a satisfied lift. “Well, so am I. I’m a typewriter in Chicago, winters.” “Does—does it pay well?” asked Rosalie, with such serious wistfulness that Miss Hickey forgave her her rich acquaintances. She grimaced. “Not so you’d notice it. I ain’t goin’ back this fall. You know the Yellowstone Company’ll land you just as many miles from the Park as they brought you, and in any direction you say. Me for Los Angeles. I ain’t afraid I can’t make my living, and I’m sick o’ bein’ snowed on, winters, without any furs.” Rosalie looked enviously at the other’s snapping black eyes.