“Oh, I think you ought to ask her.” It was Helen Virginia’s voice, amiable and drawly. “She’s not even been given a booth at the Fair. Why not put her at the fudge booth? She can surely sell candy.” “Raquel Daniels couldn’t sell Red Cross stamps! Besides, Lois’s the chairman and she’s got it all arranged. Raquel will have to help her country some other way.” And there was a laugh. Raquel had wanted to speak,--to let them know at once that she was there. But instinctive kindness kept her from presenting herself, to the embarrassment of the speakers, when unkind things had been said about her. But the last words--these girls sure used a mean quirt. Tears stung Raquel’s eyes. She could not have uttered a word. Then rage boiled up to her rescue. So they wouldn’t even let her sell fudge? A little old candy! Why, all they could make and sell wouldn’t bring as much as one good steer. Well, there were other ways of helping one’s country. Perhaps she didn’t know how to dress or act. Why should she? But she _could_ go back and ride the range, and raise stock to feed the armies. Beef’d carry ’em a lot further than fudge. At the comforting thought Raquel was able to smile. In her pocket was a letter from Dad. Custer had enlisted one day and Grant the next. They were already in training camp. And good old Jimmy, who couldn’t make it for overseas service, was teaching at one of the new training camps. “But all right, little girl,” wrote Dad. “We don’t need you--at least not yet. You just stay on and get all the learnin’ and fun you can. I’ll let you know when I need you.” Dad had always said she was as good as a couple of hands; she burned to show him what she could do now. * * * * * After all Raquel did not have to endure the Fair where she could not help. Coming into her room the next afternoon, dispirited, feeling, she thought to herself, like a prickly pear, she was met by Anne waving a letter from her mother. “You’re coming home with me for Thanksgiving. Yes, you are. Here’s a letter from Mother saying so. I didn’t know whether she’d have room or not, and as she always _makes_ room if one of us asks to bring some one home, I waited. Come on, Rakie, let’s go tonight.” It was a home-coming that Raquel never forgot; Anne’s father, eyes twinkling, voice booming out, “Well, here’s our little Texan;” Anne’s mother, clasping Raquel close, mothering her, so that she felt at once enveloped in affection and understanding. She marveled at the personal daintiness of Anne’s mother, the faintly scented lace in her bosom, so different from Raquel’s own best violet soap at ten cents a cake. Why, Anne’s mother had gray hair, yet she was dressed up as pretty and sweet and her hair was done as nicely as a young girl’s.