“Virginia Davis,” she exclaimed excitedly, “has it ever entered your thought even remotely that our Tom might be Peyton Wente, the lost brother of Babs?” “Why no, dear. It never had,” Virginia replied. “Do you suppose that it might be possible? And yet, if it were true, we wouldn’t want to tell Babs that the brother whom she so adores is a fugitive from justice.” “No, we wouldn’t,” Margaret reluctantly admitted. Then, after a thoughtful moment, she added, “but I would like to know for our own sake, wouldn’t you, Virg?” “Yes, I would,” the western girl agreed. “The more I know of Tom the more I am convinced that he belongs to a refined family, and I also believe there is a mistake about the mysterious something for which he is an outlaw from Texas.” “I know what let’s do,” Margaret exclaimed brightly, “let’s ask Babs to send a photograph of her brother, telling her merely that many lads drift West, lured by the fascination of life on the desert, and that if her brother should happen to be among them, we would want to be able to recognize him.” “That will be a good plan,” Virginia agreed. “Now, suppose you read the letter from Babs. I hope it isn’t feeling offended because it has been kept waiting.” CHAPTER XXXV NEWS FROM SCHOOL Virginia settled comfortably on the warm sand still holding the letter from Tom while Margaret eagerly opened the plump epistle from her best friend in the far away East. “I just love to get these chatty letters from Babs,” she prefaced and then read: “Vine Haven Seminary, “March 15, 1922. “Dearest Cowgirls: “Megsy, you remember how prim and proper Miss Pickle was when you were here at school and how ‘skeered’ of her we girls always were. Well, some mysterious power is surely working a transformation. I told you about the Surprise Valentine party she gave for us and how we entertained young Prof. Pixley and thirteen of the boys from the Drexel Military Academy. Well, ever since that night Miss Piqulin has been kindlier in her manner; she hasn’t done her hair up quite so tight and she even attempted a joke in algebra class. We girls hardly dared laugh, however, but yesterday something happened to convince us that Miss Piqulin can be called the sour Miss Pickle no longer. “It was her birthday and it was also mine. It being Saturday Miss Piqulin decided to celebrate and she invited her algebra class to spend the day in the city with her. Weren’t we excited though? You know our club, ‘The Lucky Thirteen,’ (we asked Jennie Clark to join when you left school that we might keep the same number), are all in that class. We decked up in our very best and looked pretty nice, so we thought, when we gathered in the lower corridor to await the coming of the school bus. Betsy Closson was the last down and she seemed excited about something. ‘Girls,’ she said, ‘watch Miss Martin’s office door.