However, when Barbara had reluctantly departed for her class, Margaret found that the prospect of arriving in Chicago alone and unprotected was not a pleasant one to contemplate. With her father she had spent one day in the big city and she remembered how she had clung to his hand when they had crossed the streets and how terrorized she had been by the rush and roar of the traffic. An hour later, when Babs returned, she was surprised to find that the trunk had been taken to the station. That evening Mrs. Martin and Barbara accompanied the young traveler to the train, as the principal of the school wished to be sure that her young charge was started safely on this, her first journey alone, and in the care of the kindly conductor. It was not until the next morning, when the train was slowly entering Chicago, that Margaret, weary from an excited and sleepless night, placed a small red ribbon bow on the lapel of her warm, gold-brown coat, wondering, as she did so, what manner of person her escort would be. CHAPTER VII MARGARET’S ESCORT Meanwhile Malcolm in a nearby hotel was preparing to play the role upon which he and Virginia had decided. A grey wig and mustache changed his appearance so completely, that even one well acquainted with him would not, at first glance, have recognized him. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Peter Wallace,” he said to his beaming reflection. Then, donning his sombrero, he started out as he thought, “Now I know what I will look like twenty years hence. I do wish Virg was here. How she would laugh to see me in this disguise.” Ten minutes later, when the train drew to a standstill, Mr. Peter Wallace watched each passenger alight with the aid of a colored porter. At last he saw an unusually pretty young girl in a gold-brown suit and trim traveling hat who stood for a moment looking around helplessly. Malcolm’s heart pounded queerly. He hadn’t supposed that their rebellious ward would be good-looking. In fact he hadn’t thought anything about it. He went closer, almost believing that this maiden could not be the one he expected, but there was a small red ribbon bow on the lapel of her coat. For a moment Malcolm almost forgot that he was a middle-aged rancher and was about to advance in his usual buoyant fashion, when a warning thought recalled to him: “You are Mr. Peter Wallace, not Malcolm Davis who is to greet this young girl.” And so, when Margaret’s almost frightened gaze, wandering over the heedless, hurrying throng, turned toward the approaching stranger, she saw a tall, broad-shouldered man, whose stride might have suggested that he was younger than his grey hair indicated. “Are you Miss Selover?” he inquired in as matter-of-fact a tone as he could assume. “I am,” the girl replied, rather frigidly, now that she was no longer frightened. “Are you Mr. Peter Wallace?”