Over a large cabin trunk bent a girl of fourteen.

She straightened herself as she heard footsteps.
Alas! alas! for Ulyth's illusions.

The enchanting vision of the prairie flower faded, and Rona Mitchell stood before her in solid fact.

Solid was the word for it--no fascinating cinema heroine this, but an ordinary, well-grown, decidedly plump damsel with brown elf locks, a ruddy sunburnt complexion, and a freckled nose.
Where, oh, where, were the delicate features, the fairy-like figure, and the long rich clustering curls of Rose of the Wilderness?
Ulyth stood for a moment gazing as one dazed; then, with an effort, she remembered her manners and introduced herself.
"Proud to meet you at last," replied the new-comer heartily.

"You and I've had a friendship switched on for us ready-made, so to speak.