ossibility. There were not many escorts coming their way from Ganado,
and Rosa happened to know that the old Indian who frequently escorted
parties was off in another direction. She could not rest on any such
hope. When she reached home she went at once to her room and sat beside
her window, gazing off at the purple mountains in deep thought. Then she
lighted a candle and went in search of a certain little Testament, long
since neglected and covered with dust. She found it at last on the top
of a pile of books in a dark closet, and dragged it forth, eagerly
turning the pages. Yes, there it was, and in it a small envelope
directed to "Miss Rosa Rogers" in a fine angular handwriting. The letter
was from the missionary's wife to the little girl who had recited her
texts so beautifully as to earn the Testament.

Rosa carried it to her desk, secured a good light, and sat down to read
it over carefully.

No thought of her innocent childish exultation over that letter came to
her now. She was intent on one thing--the handwriting. Could she seize
the secret of it and reproduce it? She had before often done so with
great success. She could imitate Miss Earle's writing so perfectly that
she often took an impish pleasure in changing words in the questions on
the blackboard and making them read absurdly for the benefit of the
school. It was such good sport to see the amazement on Margaret's face
when her attention would be called to it by a hilarious class, and to
watch her troubled brow when she read what she supposed she had written.

When Rosa was but a little child she used to boast that she could write
her father's name in perfect imitation of his signature; and often
signed some trifling receipt for him just for amusement. A dangerous
gift in the hands of a conscienceless girl! Yet this was the first time
that Rosa had really planned to use her art in any serious way. Perhaps
it never occurred to her that she was doing wrong. At present her heart
was too full of hate and fear and jealous love to care for right or
wrong or anything else. It is doubtful if she would have hesitated a
second even if the thing she was planning had suddenly appeared to her
in the light of a great crime. She seemed sometimes almost like a
creature without moral sense, so swayed was she by her own desires and
feelings. She was blind now to everything but her great desire to get
Margaret out of the way and have Forsythe to herself.

Long after her