help much," he said hopelessly.

Chicken Little slowly folded up the little garments and laid them neatly
back in their wrapping. Her brow was puckered into a frown.

"I am trying to think where I have heard that name Juanita--some place
lately. I don't remember ever to have known anybody by that name. It's
Spanish, isn't it?"

"I guess so, but what you're thinking of is the song, 'Juanita.'"

"Oh, I expect it is. Sherm, do you mind if I take these things over and
show them to Captain Clarke? He said he would like to see them when they
came."

"No, take them along. If you'll wait till I get the feeding done, I'll
go with you."

"All right, let's take Calico and Caliph."

Sherm lingered out on the veranda while Chicken Little displayed the
contents of the package to the Captain. He examined each little article
of clothing for some identifying mark.

"There doesn't seem to be anything to help on those," he said,
disappointed. "Let's have a look at the jewelry."

Chicken Little unwrapped the ring from its layers of tissue paper, and
handed it to him. Captain Clarke took it, regarded the flat golden
circle intently for an instant, then turned it to read the inscription.

A pained cry broke from his lips. Chicken Little glanced hastily up to
find him holding the ring in shaking fingers, staring off into vacancy.
"Juanita!" he whispered, "Juanita!"

Chicken Little touched his hands in distress.

"Captain--Captain Clarke, what is it?"

He looked down at her with a start. "I--it is----Excuse me a moment,
Chicken Little."

He walked into his bedroom with the ring still in his hand and closed
the door.

Chicken Little waited and waited, not knowing whether she ought to go
and tell Sherm what she suspected. It seemed too strange to be possible.
And if it were true, surely Captain Clarke would want to tell him
himself. Perhaps she oughtn't to be there. She rose softly and slipped
out to Wing in the kitchen. After a time she heard Sherm get up from his
seat on the veranda step and go into the library. Immediately after, the
bedroom door opened and she heard the murmur of voices. She left a
message with Wing and running quietly out to Calico, untied him, and
rode home in the twilight.

* * * * *

"You needn't ever say again, Ernest Morton," she wrote to her brother
the next evening, "that E. P. Roe's stories are too goody-goody and
fishy to be interesting. He can't hol