Nothing seemed to matter now that her mother was dead. It was plain Val would never be happy again. Leaving her home, to which she was devotedly attached, was hardly a misfortune, any more than going to live with her grandmother. What did anything matter? God hadn't heard her prayers; He had mocked her faith, and she was motherless. She hadn't enough interest in life even to be "owdacious," as her grandmother called it. She was passive, almost "good." Her father, observing her settled depression on the journey West, gathered her into his arms, and whispered: "We have each other, you know." And she lay with her face hidden, and cried a long time, so quietly that her grandmother thought she was asleep. It was the reunion with her little sister that first roused her out of her unchildlike apathy. Not the genial warmth of family affection, not the diversion of having a playmate, but the tonic of a vigorous antagonism, as unexpected as it seemed unnatural. "Where is my room?" Val had asked, on the evening of their arrival at the Old Fort. "You are to sleep with Emmeline," said her grandmother. "But, grandma, I've never slept with any one." "Haven't you, my dear?" "No, and I've always--" "That will do now. Go up-stairs and wash your face and hands. Emmeline will show you the way." Val went off quietly enough, but it might have staggered Mrs. Gano could she have known the rage and rebellion that seethed in that small female heart. It was dusk up in the little girls' room. "Why haven't they lit the gas?" asked Val. "We don't have gas here." "Lamps, then." "Gamma thinks lamps are too esplosive." "Do you live in the dark?" "No; we have candles, but it ain't dark enough yet. I'll show you where everything is." "I'll find 'em myself." Val had espied the candles on the bureau. She lit them. "Oh, we never have more'n one," admonished Emmie, gently. Val went on calmly with her toilet. Presently Mrs. Gano looked in. "Come to supper, little girls, as soon as you're ready." She was going away without more words, when Emmie called out excitedly: "Just look, gamma--two candles a-burnin', 'and no ship at sea!'" Mrs. Gano smiled. "Yes, my dear; one is enough." She put the extinguisher over the nearest, and went down-stairs. "Skinflint!" observed Val. The supper was on this occasion a late and hurriedly prepared meal. There were soft-boiled eggs. Val helped herself to two, and broke them into a tumbler; then mixed in salt, and pepper, and butter, and bits of bread. "Just look at what Val's doing!" said Emmie, with innocent excitement, while her elder and more accomplished sister stirred the agreeable compound round and round. "Never do that again," said Mrs. Gano, suddenly aware of the enormity. "I don't like people to make puddings in their tumblers at my table." "T'ain't puddin'," said Val. "That will do." Mrs. Gano ended the matter according to her usual formula. "Will you have some corn bread?"