A strange being rode out of the brush among them, and there sat his
horse languidly. He was stained and disfigured with the green of the
grass and the limestone of rocky roads.

"Hallo, Pearson," said Daddy Weaver. "Look like you've been breaking
a mustang. What's that you've got tied to your saddle--a pig in a
poke?"

"Oh, come on, Tonia, if you're going," said Betty Rogers. "We mustn't
wait any longer. We've saved a seat in the buckboard for you. Never
mind the hat. That lovely muslin you've got on looks sweet enough
with any old hat."

Pearson was slowly untying the queer thing on his saddle. Tonia
looked at him with a sudden hope. Pearson was a man who created
hope. He got the thing loose and handed it to her. Her quick
fingers tore at the strings.

"Best I could do," said Pearson slowly. "What Road Runner and me
done to it will be about all it needs."

"Oh, oh! it's just the right shape," shrieked Tonia. "And red roses!
Wait till I try it on!"

She flew in to the glass, and out again, beaming, radiating,
blossomed.

"Oh, don't red become her?" chanted the girls in recitative. "Hurry
up, Tonia!"