ON THE MESA
"Pedro," said Virginia, "do you realize for one little minute what's
happened?"
Pedro looked back and whinnied. He realized at least that something was
agitating his mistress. But half an hour since she had run out of the
house to where he was feeding beneath the cottonwoods, and hurried him to
the corral where she had saddled and bridled him herself. She had been
crying then. Quick little sobs were shaking her shoulders. Then she had
sprung upon his back and ridden like mad across the prairie to Elk Creek
Valley. Had MacDuff been along, he would not have minded; but it was too
warm at mid-day to gallop all alone. Once during that wild ride she had
laughed, and once she had leaned forward and put her arms around his neck.
It was all a very strange proceeding. Now she had mercifully halted him
on the brow of the mesa, and was allowing him to rest and feed while she
sat in silence and looked across the sagebrush stretches to the
mountains.
A long silence. The air throbbed with a hidden insect chorus. Little waves
of heat shimmered above the mesa. Jean MacDonald's three cows, searching
for better feeding-grounds, passed by and gazed with grave, inquisitive
eyes at Pedro and Virginia. Pedro fed on where he was. At last the girl
upon his back spoke again.
"Pedro," she began, and again Pedro raised his head, "Pedro, I've decided
that Life isn't such a strange thing after all! I've always thought it was
until to-day, but I guess it isn't. I guess it just means loving
people--and things! If you love the wrong kind of people and the things
that don't count, why, then--why, then Life's a sad, gray thing. But if
you love the right kind of people, the kind who've learned that a primrose
isn't just a primrose, and things like the mountain and the mesa and
_you_, Pedro--why, then, Life's a golden thing like to-day. And it's the
loving that makes all the difference. I discovered that this morning when
Aunt Nan told me about Malcolm. When I was in Vermont I thought that
Grandmother and Aunt Nan were about the happiest people I'd seen; but this
morning, when I saw the light in Aunt Nan's eyes, I understood. I guess
it's a home that makes all the difference, Pedro--a home you and _somebody
else_ make together!"
Pedro fed on, glad to be talked to, confident that his mistress' world had
righted itself again. A passing cloud obscured the sun for a brief
moment.
"That's the way it was with me this morning," confided Virginia. "For just
an instant I felt sorry. 'Twas the selfish part of me coming out. I didn't
want any one to take a bigger piece of Aunt Nan's heart than mine. I
didn't want to move over and make room for any one else--even Malcolm. But
that mean, drab feeling lasted only a moment. It went right away, and now
I'm glad, _glad--glad!_ If Grandmother Webster's only glad, too, there
couldn't be any greater happiness in the world, could there, Pedro?"
Pedro stopped feeding to look back at his mistress, and to shake his
head. Virginia laughed.
"You're the only friend I want to-day, Pedro," she said, her arms around
his neck, "you and a big Something in my heart. I wanted to come away off
up here alone with you. That's why I hurried you so, poor dear! I wanted
to hear the stillness all around, and to look at the mountains. I wanted
to think about it, and to wonder if, some day, after I've learned more
things, it will come to me, too!"
Impulsively she turned in her saddle and looked down the foot-hills. Some
one was fording the creek. She knew it even before she heard the splash of
water. As she watched, two riders left the ford, and turned north up the
canyon trail. They were Malcolm and Aunt Nan. Virginia turned back toward
the mountains, and sat very still.
"Pedro," she said at last, her voice breaking, "I guess perhaps we'd
better go home, don't you? Aunt Nan and Malcolm have found their trail,
you see. They don't need us just now. No, I'm not sorry! I'm glad! I just
_know_ it's the most wonderful thing in all the world!"