The Finding of Jasper Holt by Grace Livingston Hill

The tournament was set for the day before Jean started home.

It was to be a great event, the biggest thing the town of Hawk Valley could devise in the way of entertainment for its most honored guests. It was an all-day affair, with contests and games of every kind, races and matches and a big procession with everyone wearing the gayest and most fantastic garments the resources of the town afforded.

The climax of the program was to be late in the afternoon when the great feats of riding were performed and the prizes and wreaths given out to the victors.

The highest honor had been allotted to Jean, for she had been selected to give out the prizes and crown the victor of the final riding contest.

It had been the custom heretofore in other similar contests that a lady so honored should ride once around the running track in company with the victor and share with him the triumph of the occasion. Great was the eagerness of all the young men to win this privilege on this occasion, for Jean's delicate beauty and sweet, gentle ways had made her most popular, and everyone was striving for the privilege of riding with her and being crowned by her fair hand. All in a friendly way there had been much merriment about it, much betting and chaffing, much practising of horsemanship, much boasting, and many a gallant gentleman had besought her to wear his flowers on the gala day that he might stand the better chance of winning.

But Jean had smiled upon them all and would promise none. She took it all as a beautiful piece of pleasantry in her honor, though sometimes she was secretly distressed at the earnestness with which many of her admirers pressed their suit. They were splendid fellows, all of them, and it was hard to be refusing and disappointing them all the time. Hard, too, it was, to disappoint her sister Eleanor continually, who was an enthusiastic match-maker and felt real chagrin that her beloved sister should go back home from all that adulation still apparently heart-free, when she had been given so many perfectly good chances to fall in love. Eleanor would have liked nothing better than to have Jean marry and settle out near herself. Then the father and mother would eventually come, of course, and the family would be reunited. It was most aggravating to her that Jean remained so unimpressionable.

The day before the tournament great boxes of flowers began to arrive for Jean, embarrassing her with their riches, profusion and costliness. Orchids and lilies, gardenias and roses of rare varieties, carnations, jessamine, even delicate wild flowers and wonderful poppies. Each admirer had spent much thought and care upon his offering, hoping to have it chosen for wearing upon the great occasion; and each had tried to have his flowers unusual and noticeable enough to draw her choice away from all others. With each great box came card or note or sometimes letter bearing the name and earnest plea of the giver, three even offering themselves with their flowers.

Jean stood among her blossoms, her cheeks vying with the roses, her eyes as starry as the lilies, distressed and touched, but not quite pleased. It was terrible to her that she seemed to have wrought such havoc in the hearts of men.

Eleanor and the children hovered excitedly around, far more pleased than Jean over the honors that were heaped upon her. Eleanor talked in a high, sweet soprano about the merits of the different flowers, and the reasons why each should be worn in preference to the others.

"There were the Captain's orchids -- so expensive, poor fellow -- and he was so handsome! " Eleanor always ended with the Captain where she had begun. It was plain that Eleanor favored the Captain most mightily.

Jean stood and touched the flowers, tenderly, compassionately, as though in some way they were human things that had been cheated into coming without a cause; as she might have looked at and touched something very beautiful that did not belong to her. It seemed a big responsibility to have all these lovely blossoms with all they represented, and as she filled each vase and jar and bowl to overflowing till almost every available receptacle in the house was filled, her eyes grew more and more troubled and thoughtful. Somehow it seemed wrong for her to have all these perishing beauties, knowing that the lasting treasure they were here to plead for their donors was not hers to give.

"Which flowers are you going to wear, Jean? " asked Eleanor vexedly that night, as they went upstairs together after tucking the blossoms all away under damp papers. "You know you'll have to decide in the morning, and there really aren't any more to come in, unless Mr. Frazer sends some. Everybody, literally every man in the region that could have a shadow of right to do so, has sent you some. It shows how popular you are! I don't believe any girl that ever came here before was so well treated, and so universally admired. It's wonderful, Jean. You little, quiet, sweet child, but you've got them all under your small thumb! I never would have suspected it of you."

Jean smiled wearily. She was tired and her sister's idea of triumph was not hers. It savored too much of counting the scalps of those she had slain. She did not want to have men at her feet to be turned away. She looked at life more seriously than just a game where she was to win all no matter who lost.

She turned away with a gentle good-night, and Eleanor's eyes followed her dissatisfiedly.

"You know, you might wear one of each and satisfy them all," she suggested.

Jean smiled and shuddered inwardly. The scalps again! A display of them!

"Never! " she murmured.

"Well, what are you going to do? " Her sister was all out of patience with her dallying.

"I'll sleep over it," she said brightly. "Aren't you tired, dear?"

And Eleanor had to let it go at that.