They got off at nine on a blue-and-gold morning and Ginger was very helpful and attentive to her aunt, who was large and impressive upon old Sam in her borrowed riding things. Some one among the women had produced an old-fashioned divided skirt of corduroy and her legs were wound with spiral puttees of khaki. She was not ill-pleased with herself. “Of course, I’m stout,” she whispered to Ginger, “but I do taper. I have the wrists and ankles of a woman half my weight. This isn’t a very snappy outfit, is it? But who knows--if I keep up this sort of thing, by next summer I may be able to ride in pants and get away with it!” The doctor rode up to them. “Won’t change your mind, Ginger, even if I let you ride Ted?” “Thank you, no, Doctor. I’m going to be a magazine and hammock person.” She held, indeed, a magazine, one of the sober and substantial ones. She waved them out of sight and then found a hammock in the sun and devoted herself to a rather stiff article on California’s attitude toward the Japanese problem, and at luncheon she was very gay with every one, and let the black-eyed gallant (who was just a little flattered at her staying behind) take her down to his improvised golf course and instruct her in driving off, which involved a good deal of minute demonstration as to the position of her hands on the club. Later in the afternoon she saddled a horse and rode over the hills to the ocean and visited the valiant little old grandmother of most of the families in the vicinity. She had come from Alsace when she was a child, and she had crossed the plains in a prairie schooner when she was a very young girl, and married and settled in that remote and difficult spot. She had borne and reared nine children and buried four of them, and she had been a widow for long years. Ginger had come to see her on her last visit to the camp, and the old lady remembered her perfectly and thought she was even prettier than she had given promise of being, but she was a little worried to find she was not married, at twenty-three, and had no prospects. Twenty-three was high time, “Gramma” considered, to be about the real business of life. Clearly sorry for her, she made haste to show her all her treasures--the many patchwork quilts which she made in the wet winters when she couldn’t work out-of-doors, slowly, because she had two paralyzed fingers and the rest somewhat warped with work and rheumatism, the quaint, water-colored picture which symbolized her father’s honorable discharge from the French army, the curios her most venturesome son had brought back from Alaska, her clock. This was a massive affair of onyx, elaborately embellished, and there was a plate upon its front with an inscription. The old lady had risen, one night of wild and violent wind and rain, impelled by she knew not what impulse, and placed a lighted lamp in her upper window, and hours later the shipwrecked crew of a coast steamer had groped to her door. “Gramma” had warmed and dried and