It was true that she owed her plump relative something in the way of escort and companionship, after her good offices of last winter, but the keynote of the pilgrimage rather shocked and startled her. She thought her aunt must be mistaken; the keen, splendid, out-of-doors doctor, and Aunt Fan tapping endlessly on high heels down restaurant floors--breathing always steam-heated air, knowing as little about a horse as a zebra-- “All right, then--go and telephone old Manuela this minute, and I’ll drop the doctor a line. My--when I think what it may mean to me, what I may lose--” she went with heavy swiftness, taking her short, chugging steps, to a tiny pink-and-gold writing desk, and it seemed to the watching Ginger that she was considerably keener about what she might lose than what she might gain. * * * * * The doctor, brown and hard and happy, met their train at Monterey and motored them down to his camp. It was in full swing: thirty persons sat down to meals together in the big screened dining room--pleasant, poised people from San José and San Francisco, people who had achieved and arrived and were comfortably slackening the pace--but for the rest of the days and evenings they were scattered. The doctor, undisputed chief, by right of discovery and conquest of the wilderness, captained the hunts, the long rides over the mountain trails, the daybreak fishing trips; the judge rallied two teams for lusty morning games of volley ball; an ardent golfer found a meadow where enthusiasts might improve their form; the women spent long, soft afternoons over intricate needlework for an orphans’ home bazaar; there were tables of bridges, hammocks and magazines, picnics at the beach, stories by the camp fire, dancing in the evening. Ginger knew most of the older people, but the three or four girls were strangers to her, and it is doubtful if they welcomed her with any deep degree of pleasure; everything that they were--in riding, in pictorialness, Virginia McVeagh, the far-famed “Ginger” of Dos Pozos, was--and more. She was the doctor’s prime favorite; his keen eyes rested on her in affectionate approval. She was quieter than she used to be, he believed, but it was a sure and serene quiet, not a shy one. They had been discussing a two days’ riding and camping trip and a very blond girl leaned forward in her chair at table and called down to Ginger. “Listen, Miss McVeagh, I want to give you fair warning about the new Forest Ranger! I saw him first--I’ve got my fingers crossed!” She held up two slim digits, twisted. “Ah ... wait till you see him! Wallie Reed and Tommy Meighan and Valentino rolled into one! We’ll never be the same again, any of us! Even Laura”--Laura, a brown-eyed beauty, was newly and patently betrothed--“has missed a mail or two! He’s--”