"Yes," she said, turning her wonderful eyes toward her friends. In them the girls saw an expression of radiant happiness which told them more than words could how great was Meg's joy that she had at last learned who her father really was. Jane and Merry were perplexed. How did Meg know? Their question was answered before it was asked. "I should have told you girls this afternoon. When Dan spoke the name that he had found carved on the handle of the old shovel, instantly memory recalled to me that, as a very small child, I had been taught to lisp that my name was Lalie Giguette." "O Meg, what a beautiful name. May we begin at once to call you Eulalie?" The mountain girl smiled at Jane. "If you wish, dear friend." She then held out her hand for the letter which Bob had gone to his sweater coat to procure. "We found several books with your father's name on them as author," the boy informed her, and the girl looked up brightly to say, "O, I am so glad! Did you bring them?" "No," Bob replied, "we thought perhaps you would like to visit the cabin and find everything there just as he left it." "I would indeed!" Meg rose, and going to the center table, she spread the letter under the hanging lamp. After a moment's scrutiny, she turned toward the silently waiting group. "It is clearly written," she said. "I will read it aloud: "'To my dear petite daughter Eulalie,'" Meg read, "'Poor little wee lassie! Not yet three and no one to care for you. I shall try to get back to New York before the end comes, but there is no one, not even in France, where I lived as a boy. All--all are dead. "'But you will want to know much and I will be gone when you are old enough to question. When I was twenty-one I came to New York and married a girl who was as all alone as I. We were very happy, but my loved one, your mother, died when you were born. For a long year I grieved until my health was broken. For your sake, Lalie, I followed my doctor's advice and came to the Rocky Mountains. I was about to put you in a convent school, but you clung to me and would not loosen your hold. I feared I had not long to live and I did so want you with me, hence I brought you here. But if I do not get stronger soon, I will take you back to the kind sisters, who will make you a home. "'We reached this deserted mining camp after weeks of wandering and I built for us a cabin where we could be alone and unmolested. At last my lost ambition had returned. I wrote the book of my dreams and sent it to my publisher in New York. I hope, dear little daughter, that it will be a success for your sake, but as yet I do not know.'" Meg looked up and her dusky eyes were filled with tears. "That is all on the first sheet," she said. "The next was written at a later date." Then again she read: "'A tribe of Ute Indians has taken possession of the deserted cabins in the camp, but, as there is little game hereabouts, I doubt if they will long remain.'