“But you girls will be ’way ahead of me in your books,” broke in Jane Ann.

“We needn’t be ahead of you in sleeping, and in fun,” laughed Heavy, pinching her.

“Don’t be offish, Miss Jinny,” said Helen, calling her by the title that the cowboys did.

“And my name—­my dreadful, dreadful name!” groaned the western girl.

“I tell you!” exclaimed Ruth, “we’re all friends.  Let’s agree how we shall introduce Miss Hicks to the bunch.  She must choose a name——­”

“Why, call yourself ‘Nita,’ if you want to, dear,” said Helen, patting the western girl’s arm.  “That’s the name you ran away with.”

“But I’m ashamed of that.  I know it is silly—­and I chose it for a silly reason.  But you know what all these girls will do to ‘Jane Ann,’” and she shook her head, more than a little troubled.

“What’s the matter with Ann?” demanded Mercy Curtis, sharply.  “Isn’t ’Ann Hicks’ sensible-sounding enough?  For sure, it’s not pretty; but we can’t all have both pretty names and pretty features,” and she laughed.

“And it’s mighty tough when you haven’t got either,” grumbled the new girl.

“‘Ann Hicks,’” quoth Ruth, softly.  “I like it.  I believe it sounds nice, too—­when you get used to it.  ‘Ann Hicks.’  Something dignified and fine about it—­just as though you had been named after some really great woman—­some leader.”

The others laughed; and yet they looked appreciation of Ruth Fielding’s fantasy.

“Bully for you, Ruthie!” cried Helen, hugging her.  “If Ann Hicks agrees.”

“It doesn’t sound so bad without the ‘Jane,’” admitted the western girl with a sigh.  “And Ruth says it so nicely.”

“We’ll all say it nicely,” declared The Fox, who was a much different “Fox” from what she had been the year before. “‘Ann Hicks,’ I bet you’ve got a daguerreotype at home of the gentle old soul for whom you are named.  You know—­silver-gray gown, pearls, pink cheeks, and a real ostrich feather fan.”

“My goodness me!” ejaculated the newly christened Ann Hicks, “you have already arranged a very fanciful family tree for me.  Can I ever live up to such an ancestress as that?”

“Certainly you can,” declared Ruth, firmly.  “You’ve just got to.  Think of the original Ann—­as Mary described her—­whenever you feel like exploding.  Her picture ought to bring you up short.  A lady like that couldn’t explode.”

“Tough lines,” grumbled the western girl.  “Right from what you girls call the ‘wild and woolly,’ and to have to live up to silver-gray silk and pearls—­M-m-m-m!”

“Now, say! say!” cried Belle Tingley, suddenly, and seizing upon Ruth, about whom she had been hovering ever since they had met. “I want to talk a little.  There aren’t any more infants to christen, I hope?”

“Go on!” laughed Ruth, squeezing her.  “What is the matter, Bella mia?”