“Now there ain’t a better rider in all this country than yourself, Miss Virginia, and I can just see how you’ll make them Easterners’ eyes stick out. And we boys don’t want you to have to ride on any o’ them flat-seated English saddles, that ain’t fit for any one but a tenderfoot. So we’ve just took the liberty of gettin’ you a little remembrance of us. Joe and Dick, suppose you lift the cover, and show Miss Virginia her present.” [Illustration: “Jim, scorning assistance, had risen from his chair and stood facing his audience.”] Joe and Dick raised the cover of the box, and lifted from it before Virginia’s shining eyes a new Western saddle. It was made from russet leather with trappings complete, and could not be surpassed in design and workmanship. On its brass-topped saddle-horn were engraved the letters “V. H.”; the same monogram was embroidered on the four corners of the heavy brown saddle blanket; and the brass of the bridle, suspended from the saddle-horn, was cunningly engraved with the same design. Virginia gazed at the saddle, at her father, at the men, one by one, at Hannah, who was wiping her eyes; and then suddenly the tears came into her own eyes, and her voice, when she tried to thank them, broke at every word. “Oh, I—just—can’t—thank—you—” she managed to say, while the men’s rough faces twitched, and tears filled the furrows of Jim’s cheeks, “but I’ll—never forget you, never, because you’re my very best friends!” And she went from one to the other, shaking hands with each, while her father followed her example, for he was quite as touched and delighted as she. Then, after she had examined all over again every part of the saddle; after Jim had explained how they were to pack and ship it so that it would reach school by the time she arrived; after gingerbread and cider had helped them all to regain composure, Virginia went to her room and returned with a tiny box, and her fountain pen. “Aunt Lou says that every girl who goes away to school must have calling cards,” she explained, “and I’m going to use mine for the very first time to-night to write my address for each one of you. And every time you look at it, please remember how much I thank you every one, and how much I’m missing you.” So when the men went back to the bunk-house, after an hour they would always remember, each carried in the pocket of his flannel shirt a calling-card, given by a “lady” to a “gentleman.” “Oh, daddy,” cried Virginia, as the last faint creak of Jim’s stick died away on the road to the bunk-house. “Oh, daddy, why did they ever do it for me? And I’ve never done a thing for them, except perhaps reading to Jim!” Her father gathered her in his lap for the last few minutes before the fire.