Irving caught a glimpse of her expression. “Mrs. Nixon is making up her mind never again to do anything wrong,” he remarked. “I always said my Hades would be noise,” she replied, “but I begin to think it will be odors.” “I always said _mine_ would be dirt,” declared Mrs. Bruce, “but I believe I’d prefer that to being boiled. Irving, don’t you let go of me. This is the wickedest place I ever saw. Those little sizzling springs are just hissing to catch my feet.” The party stopped to watch the heavy plop-plop of a mud geyser. “Now,” said Robert, “while we’re all thinking on our sins and properly humble, is the time to get acquainted. Mrs. Bruce, this is my mother, and my uncle Mr. Derwent, and Miss Maynard; and Mr. Bruce you all know by reputation.” Betsy had moved to a remote corner of the geyser. “I never know just how to address that member of your party,” said Robert to Irving. The latter smiled. “She would tell you she was just Betsy. She’s such a good soul that down East, in the village where she comes from, they call her Clever Betsy; and she’s all that New England means by the adjective, and all that Old England means, too.” Meanwhile Rosalie Vincent was making her hasty preparations for another move, and to her came Miss Hickey in a state of high satisfaction. “I’m staying, Baby,” she cried, her eyes snapping. “I guess there must be a lot of lay-overs. Anyway they need me, and there’s a Swattie ball to-night. Hurray!” Miss Hickey executed a triumphant two-step and knocked over a chair. Rosalie seized her arm. “Can’t I stay too, then?” she asked anxiously. “No, you can’t, Blue-eyes. You’re to go.” “Oh, you go and let me stay!” begged Rosalie nervously. “And lose the ball?” exclaimed Miss Hickey. “Well, believe _me_, you’ve got nerve!” Rosalie looked as if she were going to cry, and Miss Hickey’s good-nature prompted a bit of comfort. “Besides, if you’re afraid of the lock-up, this is your chance to side-step those folks. More’n as like as not they’re among the lay-overs.” At this consideration Rosalie did brighten, and when the last stage came around, Miss Hickey was present to speed the parting heaver whose apprehensive glance about her saw no familiar figure. “Oh, they _are_ staying, Miss Hickey!” she exclaimed, in hushed tones. The sophisticated Miss Hickey did not respond, but nodded affably to the driver. Rosalie breathed a relieved farewell as she left the big-boned bulwark of her friend and obeyed the agent’s signal to enter the back seat of the stage. The vehicle was empty but for a stout man with a field glass strapped across his shoulders who mounted to the seat beside the driver, and they started. The whole stage to herself! Rosalie could scarcely believe it.