“Now, don’t be a crape hanger, my child,” said her aunt, severely. “Just because you’re out of sorts yourself--honestly, Ginger, the way you let Dean Wolcott be gobbled up alive by that little, pale blue string bean--” Ginger was brushing her mane of black hair, and it hung over her head and down before her face in a thick curtain. Her voice came through it, muffled but wholly amiable, “He seems to be enjoying it, doesn’t he?” “_Seems_, of course! That’s just it. Any man with the spirit of a caterpillar-- Do you expect him to sit in a corner and twiddle his thumbs until--” “I expect him to do just as he’s doing,” said her niece, pleasantly. She was giving her hair, it appeared, an especially thorough brushing. “Ginger,” said Mrs. Featherstone, sniffing, “_Ginger!_ I guess we’ll have to get another nickname for you. _Very_ weak Lemon Extract ... Vanilla....” The girl flung up her head and the black mane swung back over her shoulders, thick and shining. Her face was a little flushed. “I’m worrying about your riding to Slate’s, Aunt Fan. I’m positive it will be too much for you.” “Well, I don’t say I’ll enjoy it,” Mrs. Featherstone conceded. “That isn’t the idea; I shall take it as I would take a dose of medicine.” “But you can’t swallow it down with one brave gulp, Aunt Fan! You haven’t any idea what it will be like, hours and hours--and _hours_! Three days in the saddle, and one of the nights you’ll camp out and sleep on the ground--” “I’m not going to sleep on the ground; the doctor’s loaning me his pneumatic-cushioned sleeping bag!” Then, as Ginger still shook her head, “I’ll tell you, dearie, it’s this way. I haven’t quite made up my mind about the doctor yet, but I’m making it up, and if I do--well, I must learn to like the sort of things he likes, mustn’t I?” She finished very sweetly, with a great deal of wistful earnestness in her blue eyes. “Well, I wish I could follow you with an ambulance, that’s all,” said her niece, darkly. * * * * * The doctor was much surprised and a little hurt to find that Ginger was going to stay in camp and not make the ride with them, but she was very logical about it. She knew his well-known preference for taking only a small party; more than six made a cumbersome excursion, he held--they were only as fast as the slowest horse in the string, and there was constant dismounting for cinching and saddle-setting, and endless delays; there would be seven in this party without her. She pointed out, gently, that riding wasn’t after all such a treat, such a new experience to her as it was to Aunt Fan, and the very blond girl.