The conductor, coming through the car with telegrams at Omaha, found them both so interested that he was obliged to call her name twice before her astonished ears rightly understood him. “Aren’t you Miss Virginia Hunter?” he asked amused. “Yes, sir,” she managed to say. “But it can’t be for me, is it? I never had a telegram in my life.” “It’s for you,” he said, more amused than ever, while the Colonel smiled, too, at her surprise, and left the yellow envelope in her lap. “Whom can it be from?” she asked herself, puzzled. “The spell of having a real telegram is so nice that I almost hate to break it by finding out. But I guess I’d best.” She tore open the envelope, and drew out the slip inside. When she had read it, she gazed perplexed at the Colonel. She was half-troubled, half-amused, but at length she laughed. “I’ll read it to you, I think,” she said, “because in a way it’s about you.” The Colonel in his turn looked amazed. “You see,” she went on, “it’s from my Aunt Lou, and she warned me about talking to strangers on the way. I suppose she thought I’d forget, and so she sent this.” She again unfolded the telegram, and read to him: “Los Angeles, Cal., Sept. 15. “I hope you are remembering instructions, and having a pleasant journey. “Aunt Louise.” “But I’m sure she would approve of you,” she assured him; “and I’ve talked with almost no one else, except the baby in the end of the car and his mother; and babies certainly would be exempt, don’t you think? No one could help talking to a baby.” He agreed with her. “Aren’t you going to send her a wire in return?” he asked. “Why, I never thought of that. Could I? Is there time? What can I tell her?” “Of course, you could, and there’s plenty of time. Ten minutes yet. I’ll get you a blank, and you can be thinking what you’ll tell her.” While he was gone, Virginia studied her aunt’s message, and decided upon her own. She was ready when he returned. “Don’t go away, Colonel Standish, please,” she said, when he would have left her to complete her message. “I never sent a telegram before, and besides I want you to tell me if you think this is all right. I’ve said: “Delightful journey. No talking except with baby, mother, and oldish gentleman.” The Colonel slapped his knee, and laughed. “Capital!” he said. “Capital! You’ve got us all in.” He laughed again, but stopped as he noted her puzzled expression. “Not satisfied, Miss Virginia?” “Not quite,” she admitted. “You see it doesn’t sound exactly honest. I’ve said, ‘No talking ex-cept—’ Now that sounds as though I’d talked only occasionally with the three of you, and most of the time sat by myself, when really I’ve talked hours with you. I think I’ll change the ‘No talking,’ and say, ‘Have talked with baby, mother, and oldish gentleman.’ I’d feel better about it.” She paused, waiting his approval.