She drew her letters from her pocket. In a way, she hated to read them, she said to herself, because they would make her more homesick. But in a very short time curiosity overcame her, and she began to open them eagerly. Two were from her father and Don, the other from Aunt Lou in California. She read Aunt Lou’s first—saving the best for the last. Aunt Lou was glad to hear such pleasing reports both from those in Vermont, and from Miss King. From Grandmother Webster she had been convinced that Colonel Standish was a gentleman though she would again warn Virginia that one could not be too careful. She knew that St. Helen’s and her experiences there would surely be the making of Virginia, etc., etc. Virginia folded the letter. In a way she could not help feeling glad that her grandmother and Aunt Nan, and especially Miss King, were pleased with her. Still, if Miss Green told, would Miss King understand? But it was of no use to worry, and it was in a little better humor that she opened Donald’s letter. He had missed her, he said. Everything had seemed lost without her. It was no fun riding alone, and he had been glad when October came, and he had gone to Colorado. He liked it much better than the East. The fellows were more his sort, and they rode a lot; but not one of them could ride better than she. “I’m mighty glad,” the letter ended, “that Mary Williams is in your cottage. She’s a peach, isn’t she? Jack’s all right, too. He wrote me the other day that maybe he would come to Wyoming another summer. Wouldn’t it be great if Mary could visit you then? I’m glad you’ve got a good room-mate. Don’t forget though, you promised not to be a young lady in June!” Before she opened her father’s letter, Virginia felt decidedly better. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if Mary could go to Wyoming with Jack? Maybe—of course, not probably, but maybe—Priscilla’s father might let her go, too. Dreams of glorious days in the mountains made her eyes shine. She was almost happy again. Her father’s dear fat letter was supplemented by a laboriously written one from Jim, and a note—yes, actually a note from William. And William could write a good hand, without misspelling a word! Jim’s letter told her that the little colt was growing beautifully, and was the image of his mother; that he hadn’t much minded the branding; and that Joe sent his best regards and wished to say that the lump in the littlest collie’s throat had quite disappeared. His rheumatism got worse, he said, with the colder weather, and he read her books a lot for company. He closed by saying they all missed her worse every day, and by asking her for them all how she liked the saddle, and “how it set”? William’s note told her that he should send by the next mail two sets of rattles, whose former owners he had killed the week before; and that he had already planted her garden with some perennials which he knew she would like. He would not tell her what they were, as he wanted to surprise her.